


Roll the Bones

by asolitarygrape



Series: With you [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Denial of Feelings, Dry Humping, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt Steve, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Red Room, Rough Kissing, Sexual Frustration, Slow Burn, Therapy, Torture, World War II, implied sexual abuse and childhood abuse, the Howling Commandos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asolitarygrape/pseuds/asolitarygrape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~ But, if Steve Rogers had ever learned something from Bucky Barnes, it was how to beat a joke to death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!!
> 
> Part 1:[Muscle Memory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3549494)
> 
> Part 2:[ Apple Pie and Dreams ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3593934/chapters/7926957)
> 
> For updates, random fan art, and many gifs :) [ tumblr ](http://asolitarygrape.tumblr.com/)

1935

When Steve trudged into his room and his bag smacked on the floor, Bucky had jumped. The blonde didn't notice it, was busy in dropping to the floor and tearing through the knapsack, dumping a sketchbook and pile of pens and pencils, fishing for charcoal and wound newspaper he had fashioned into smudging tools. But Bucky had jumped, sitting on the windowsill, his heart in his throat, and he stared at Steve rummaging as if a monster had barged into the room.

Knobby knees scrapping against cheap, splintering wood. Steve grumbled to himself, shaking the bag and its contents out, huffing. And Bucky pressed his hair from his face, a slow dawning expression of understanding and a decision coming into his head. 

Steve glanced up at him while fiddling through the bag, "You ever coming back to school?"

"No," Bucky was firm, pushing himself off of the ledge and walking toward Steve. He dropped onto the floor on his hands and knees. Effortlessly, without thought, he snatched up and presented a nub of charcoal.

"How did you?" Steve muttered, taking it from him and reorganizing himself around the art supplies he'd dropped everywhere.

"I'm talented." Bucky swallowed. He watched as the blonde replaced his various implements, settled back onto his heels as he dusted off a note book. And Bucky swallowed, anxiety blossoming in his chest that he told himself had always been there, and would be numbed away. A stilted breath, he clasped onto Steve's jaw and turned his head, forcing their mouths together. Steve smacked at Bucky's hand and pulled back, "What the hell?"

"I wanted to," Bucky replied stiffly. 

Steve cocked his head at him and narrowed his eyes. He drew back, arranging the charcoal and newspaper roll delicately, brushing debris from his hands. "You feelin okay, Barnes?"

Bucky opened his mouth to respond but instead gave a bitter smile, his eyes crinkling, and Steve frowned. It was a particularly cold look but Bucky wasn't deterred and fit a hand to Steve's face and breathed, "Your ma isn't home till ten."

Steve looked around the room, grunting, "She usually isn't home till ten. What's your problem?"

"I," Bucky lingered on the sound for a moment before giving another sad smile, forcing something into his voice that seemed too deep and too tired, "I just missed you."

Steve withdrew, crossing his arms protectively over himself, shutting himself away and out of reach and Bucky looked away. Steve muttered, "What did you do?"

"I didn't _do_ anything." Bucky snapped. "I just, is it that hard to...Fuck, Steve, just kiss me back, okay?"

Steve cocked an eyebrow, and sighed, tossing his bag aside entirely in a gesture of priority. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong!" Bucky snapped but his voice shook and he buttoned his mouth shut, angry with it. 

Steve got to his feet, "Come on," he offered a hand. Bucky stared at it like it was an accusation and grimaced. Five thin long fingers, like an elegant and crippled spider, white and demure. Bucky didn't want to look at it.

Steve shook his hand in the air until it resembled an impatient marionette. Bucky huffed and took it and was on his feet, getting shoved back toward the bed. "Come on," Steve grunted, "Talk to me."

Bucky looked up the length of him, which was not an easy feat. Typically one looked down at Steve Rogers. Feeling a pressure welling at his eyes, and determined to shove it away, Bucky pursed his lips. "I just wanted to kiss you."

"That's stupid." Steve crossed his arms, grand inquisitor. Bucky crossed his arms over his chest, trying to keep his heart inside and hidden and safe, and glared up at him.

"It's not stupid." Bucky's voice nearly cracked. His chest began to heave and he worried he might snap so he moved to action, moving toward the edge of his seat and pulling Steve in.

"What are--,"

"Shut up." Bucky hissed and forced his mouth back to Steve's. The blonde grabbed his shoulders, pushed back, but in a moment was crawling onto the bed. He groaned when Bucky began to pull at his shirt, a knee pressed into the mattress at either side of Bucky's hips.

"You're lying," Steve grunted. He pulled himself away in a show of will and Bucky tore a handful of his hair to force the distance to shut between them, noisily pressing his mouth to Steve's jaw. "Buck...what are you...Stop it."

"You don't really mean that," Bucky insisted. He pulled at Steve's shirt until it came away from his shoulder, and bit into Steve's neck, ...which the blonde immediately punched him in the jaw. Couldn't help it, Steve thought, and Bucky turned his face away and winced. 

Steve pulled himself a safe distance to sit beside him rather than against him, drawing his knees up for an additional barrier. But he could hear the caught breath and the small whine in the other. Without warning, it erupted into a laugh.

Steve lowered his shoulders and brushed his hand over the bite mark and Bucky was still laughing.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Bucky grinned at him, but his eyes were shining, "A lot."

Steve needled his eyes into Bucky's until the smile faded and Bucky was looking anxiously around the room. Steve nudged, "Tell me what's going on."

"I can't," Bucky ran his tongue through the corner of his mouth and bit into his bottom lip, dragging his teeth along it. Steve edged forward and grabbed him by the nape of his neck, giving a tug until Bucky chuckled. "M'in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Steve pressed and Bucky gave a bitter smile, "Kind where I don't know if I can see you anymore."

Steve kept working his fingers at Bucky's spine until he bowed his head and covered his face with a hand, exhaling hard, "Whoever taught you that trick should burn in hell."

Steve smiled, kept rubbing small circles into Bucky's shoulder, "Nah, you like my ma."

He tensed, more rigid than a bow string, and Steve felt it radiate through the muscle under his hand. Bucky kept his face covered but held his breath and Steve grunted, "What?"

"Your ma could get in a lot of trouble for letting me stay here," He said slowly, swallowing. 

But Steve scoffed, gave a smile, "She's not gonna kick you out."

"No," Bucky agreed. "But, I'm..."

"Bucky, she's not kicking you out," Steve insisted, voice dropping.

Bucky sighed and lowered his hand, looking up at Steve red eyed and trembling, "Just, just please. Just...act like it's the last time you're gonna see me. Just say goodbye, Stevie."

"Why?" Steve yelled. He hadn't intended to yell, but there it was busting out of his throat.

Bucky whined, "Steve,"

"WHY." Steve shouted again, meaning it this time. He leant into Bucky's space, intended a show of dominance. A show of strength. Bucky pushed forward and caught him, pressing Steve's skin to his and crushing their mouths together. And Steve snarled and grabbed a fistful of Bucky's hair and pulled. 

Bucky cried out and his face screwed up in pain, a hand slapping to the back of his head where Steve still had his hair. Steve grit his teeth, "Why?"

"I just want to kiss you. I was thinking about it all morning." Bucky pleaded, his eyebrows knitting together though his teeth were still visible as he sneered at Steve's grip on his hair. Steve released and Bucky's head fell forward, bumping against Steve's nose on it's way down. 

Feeling he'd made an error, Steve began to rub circles back into Bucky's nape below where the skin was reddened from moments before. Steve exhaled slowly, "M'sorry. I didn't mean to,"

Bucky shook his head but didn't respond. 

"What happened?" Steve's voice got soft and light and Bucky nearly smiled, but instead kept his face down.

Steve kept pressing, "This about yesterday? Does it hurt?"

"No," Bucky's hand flew to the stitches under his shirt. He swallowed hard, "No, I...let's not talk about that, okay?"

"Hey," Steve insisted, his voice full of sunshine and warmth and Bucky buckled. "It's okay, you live with me now, remember? I'm not so lackadaisy as the army, Imma expect you to be in on curfew, no more runnin'."

The darker one huffed a laugh and kept his eyes downward while Steve pressed, "And no more selling porn mags or bottles of liquor or any other contraband. We share in this household."

Bucky barked a laugh and flushed, looking up at Steve. And Steve was sunlight and beaming, and Bucky's face burned under it.

He tipped his chin up, innocent, a shit eating grin peeling over his face and Bucky gasped but leant in again, exhaling as Steve's mouth opened. A hand--fingers trailing along Steve's jaw and pressing against his throat as Steve slid his tongue into Bucky's mouth and bore down on him.

Twisting the blonde, Bucky rolled him onto his back and Steve hummed--- ripping at Bucky's shirt until Bucky laughed against his mouth and began tugging at his buttons. And Bucky was light headed and smiling as the shirt came off. He pressed his hips down and Steve dragged his nails along Bucky's back eliciting a strangled sound when his breath hitches.

Bucky groaned, an involuntary spasm in his chest, and he worried he was going to start crying. He purred into Steve's mouth while the blonde arched up against him and Bucky tore away for air. He took a stifled breath, bowed his forehead to Steve's, and whimpered, "I love you."

A floodgate opened and Bucky pressed his mouth to Steve's throat, noisily humming, "M'not letting anything hap'pen t'you. You're not gonna get hurt cause of me. M'not..."

Steve twists and tries to throw Bucky off, smiling, "I can take care of myself."

When Bucky begins to pull away Steve massages his fingers back into Bucky's hair and pulls their mouths together again. Bucky gasps, " _Stevie,_ I can't breathe." 

"Tough shit," Steve barks and Bucky briefly considers that he could have chosen less offensive wording for Steve Rogers before moaning into his mouth. Steve's knees lock hard and squeeze down on Bucky's hips, wrenching a sound from Bucky that Steve laughs at and immediately tries for again. Bucky's face falls into Steve's shoulder and he's gasping, and his heart is going to explode and he murmurs, "I'm..."

Steve, kissing the side of his head, bit into his ear and smiled, "You're what?"

But Steve is panting and Bucky groans to feel that thin chest clashing against his and Steve is hard for him and Bucky grits his teeth and bares down against Steve's cock. The blonde digs his heels into the mattress and ruts up against him and Bucky gasps and hits his forehead against Steve's bony arm. He moans again and his eyes are squeezed shut tight enough to make his head hurt. He gasps, "S-Steve,"

The heat is building and he feels a familiar tug below his navel and it's too fast, but he groans against Steve's arm and keeps rolling his hips. Steve bit his ear again, and grunted through his teeth, "You love me?"

Bucky makes a sound in his throat and nearly sobs, bearing his head down against Steve's shoulder, ripping his ear away from Steve's mouth. His face stings and Steve is whimpering, grunting, "You love me, Barnes?"

The room feels hot and Bucky's head is spinning and his body is aching and making demands and he's moaning loud enough a thought crosses his mind that they are definitely going to get evicted.

"Barnes!" Steve snaps, his hands pulling at Bucky's skin. "S-say you love me."

"Mmm," Bucky pants, "I l-love you."

Steve giggles and ruts up hard against him and Bucky realizes he is a passenger now and bears down his weight and hisses into Steve's ear, "I ...luff..."

Steve's cock twitches and he moans, his finger nails burying into Bucky's back and Bucky gasps at the bony hips thudding away from him. He presses back down, he _tries_ , and groaning in Steve's ear, "M'not gonna let anyone hurt you."

He makes the sound again and Steve laughs, but his breath catches and he moans, "Buck, I'm..."

And then Steve's finger nails search for blood and Bucky is hissing as Steve arches up. Burying his face into Steve's throat again, humming as he kissed him, Bucky grabbed hold of Steve's thigh as it trembled and jerked it up to his body. 

Bucky rocked against him, thrusting and smiling against Steve's skin as the blonde whimpered. Steve whined and made a fist, clamping Bucky hard on the back, making Bucky laugh and stutter. The more breathless and dizzy he got, the more Steve pulled him in.

Bucky's mouth opens and won't close, no matter how many times he wills himself to be quiet, and Steve's fingers are back in his hair and rubbing his neck as he ruts down. And Bucky's moaning with every exhale and Steve is whispering in his ear now. 

"Couldn't even wait till you got your pants off, Barnes?" Steve is glowing, an annoyingly satisfied smile burning through his face and into the atmosphere. 

And Bucky thrusts against him, baring his teeth and hissing, "Fuck you."

"Trying," Steve teases, his grin still radiating like a damn spot light and Bucky is lost in it, or caught in it, he isn't sure.

"You..." Bucky pants, "Not one to...talk...waiting."

"Mmm," Steve purrs and Bucky decides on lost versus caught.

He groans and grits his teeth, rocking feverishly, losing his rhythm and moaning half words back to Steve. His breath catches in his chest, bearing down hard, grinding into Steve so that his cock starts to twitch. 

"Bucky," Steve whispers, panting, his weak heart fluttering against Bucky's chest. But his hands pull Bucky down like he's strong and Bucky keens into him, gasping, wondering if this is a heart attack, pain shooting through his skull.

"S-Steve," He gasps but his head is gone and a feeling like an aneurism snaps in his body and coats him the whole way down, dripping over him in a series of trickles from his belly down.

He grinds down and shudders, a strangled moan escaping as he rocks painfully, his groin feeling sensitive and wet and his body whining. And he swallows, realizing how dry his mouth is, how hard he's breathing, his eyelids flutter and he groans again, still pumping out.

He considers, somewhere in the fog, that he should roll off of Steve so the other can breathe, but he weighs at least 100 tons and he doesn't think he's strong enough to move that. He sighs and feels Steve's fingers still playing through his hair and he whines again.

"You...How're you?" Steve whispers and Bucky grunts and the blonde laughs and tugs his hair. "You..."

Bucky pushes himself up, swallowing back the pain in his throat, and sees Steve looking up at him, his face twisted into a smile and his eyes near black and Bucky thinks he's going to fall into Steve's eyes and buries his head back down. 

And Steve smiles and teases, "Seriously?" And Bucky grunts.

His heart thuds against Steve loud enough he can hear it outside of his ears and he moans another wordless response, until Steve whispers back, "I love you."

Bucky lets himself not hear it and rolls onto his back, covering his face with his arm. He heaves a few breaths, slick with sweat and tremors still running their hands down his legs. And he bites his lip and groans again, sleepily.

"What?" Steve pants, lifting himself up. His smile is starting to fade and there's an anxiety echoing in his throat. Steve seemed to consider repeating himself, but worries.

Tipping his head back Bucky sniffs loudly at the chill in the air, the way the cold grips suddenly into the mist on his body, and he worries for Steve because Steve is positively glistening...

"Buck," Steve pressed.

Bucky blinks some clarity back into his mind and it grips at his throat. He croaks, "That was some goodbye,"

His jaw is set in case Steve decks him and he tenses at the sound Steve makes. The tired, frustrated, confused wail that turns into a snarl. "What the _fuck_ does that mean?"

Bucky shakes his head. "We...we can't...if I'm gonna live here..."

"What." Steve snaps, all pretense and moaning immediately removed from his voice. It's harsh, and deep, and Bucky had a chill run up his spine and grip his throat like a garrote.

"Steve," Bucky breathes, still trembling. His head is confused and tired and fuzzy, the edges of reality blurring away. He considers not answering at all, falling asleep happy, but grunts, "We can't do this again. Not if..." 

Steve is silent for a long moment before sighing, "You can go now."

"Steve," Bucky whines.

"You can go now."

\---

The kitchen had a small card table, one which Steve would eventually steal and use for his own. It was shoved up against a wall in the only place it would have fit, really, and Bucky was hunched over it. He sat on the edge of his chair, his elbows on the table, one hand clasping his cigarette, watching the smoke in the blue light. The window faced the main street and he was illuminated only by the lamp across the road and the cherry in his hand. And he stared into that cherry in a daze.

He exhaled, but he hadn't bothered taking a drag, just staring as the tobacco consumed itself and each time he noticed his hand shake he grit his teeth against it and forced the stream of dissolving fire to become steady.

It was cold, and sweat was still misted on him, turning to ice along his spine and making his bones ache. He wanted the air on him, though. Some argument in his head told him that his bare skin was only cold in his mind and he could fix it if he changed his mood.

Footsteps up the stairwell. Bucky swallowed and knit his brow together and pursed his lips not to make a sound, but the rattling in his chest became loud and demanding and his next breath hurt. He swallowed again and took a drag and held the smoke until his ears began to burn.

The door opened and closed as Sarah Rogers stepped into the apartment and dead bolted the door. Bucky held very still and looked back at his cigarette for a measure of how badly he was shaking. The weight in his eyes started to build and he worried it would fall and he would fall apart and she would need to sew his mouth shut.

She dropped her keys on the table next to the sofa where she slept and walked around the corner to stand at his back. He heard her sigh and he grit his teeth together as the footsteps drew closer.

Her hand rested on his hunched back, cold and thin and calloused and softer than you would have thought and the room smelled like lavender now and Bucky bowed his head as her fingers worked a small groove over his spine and he couldn't hold himself back and he gasped.

"James," Her voice was light and deep and he pinched his eyes shut and opened his mouth to quiet how fast he was breathing and curled up his face to keep the sound from coming out and...

"James," She repeated.

He sniffled and lowered the cigarette onto the table. 

"Thank you," Her voice wavered and Bucky's hands flew up to his face to hide his reaction as his body shook. And Sarah stroked the back of his neck and ran her fingernails at the base of his spine and he sobbed.

She smiled bitterly and knelt down next to the table, draping an arm around him. And Bucky collapsed sideways into her and cried into her shoulder and she kissed his forehead and gave him a weak smile.

Sarah Rogers was beautiful. Bucky had thought so since he was four years old and he'd seen her calling Steve inside. She'd been thin and pale, the color of milk and honey and red lipped when she'd smiled at Steve covered in mud. And she'd knelt down and gotten mud on herself, brushing him off with her flaxen hair falling in her face. And Steve had looked over his shoulder expectantly to Bucky and he'd cowered back behind a bench. When she'd noticed Bucky hiding and watching as Steve walked away from him, she'd tilted her head and had flashed him a smile and Bucky had disappeared into a hole in his head and had still yet to return.

Sarah steadied him and clasped his face in both hands and Bucky tried his best to stop crying and gasped, "Mom, I--,"

Her smile turned bitter and she pulled him to her chest and she touched his hair, "I know, honey. I know."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1:[Muscle Memory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3549494)  
> Part 2: [Apple Pie and Dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3593934/chapters/7926957)  
> For updates and fun:[tumblr](http://asolitarygrape.tumblr.com/)

1942

He’d been sitting at the kitchen table for fifty minutes waiting for Bucky to get home. He kept scanning around the room, flinching at the sounds of the downstairs neighbors shuffling. He supposed they were entitled to shuffle, it being their house too. But it made his anxiety spike each and every time. His stomach ached, and his chest ached, and the ache had settled in and wouldn’t go away. He was debating sitting in the den instead. Their apartment was too tiny for there to be much variance, he had his choice of curling up in his bed, sitting at the kitchen table, or sitting at his workspace in the den. Each place felt contrived. When Bucky got home, if he saw him sitting in the den and drawing with the radio on, he would know immediately. He would know Steve wanted to look nonchalant, that he was trying to play it cool, and Steve would be busted. If he went into the bedroom and curled up in a ball, Bucky would know. He’d walk in the apartment, look around, see Steve was curled up in bed, trying to pretend he was asleep, and Steve would be busted. Steve’s only other real option was to sit in the kitchen, at the table. It joined up to the hallway, and Bucky would be able to see him the instant he’d walked in the door, and he would know.

Steve wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, his stomach jumping as he fidgeted and tried to force thoughts out of his head. Bucky was going to know no matter what, Bucky probably already knew, and Steve might as well hide in plain sight and say it up front.

Pushing a breath out, trying to move the table with his chest but being too thin to even reach it, fire started burning in his head. He was mad. He was furious. He wanted to scream and kick and punch things until all of the feelings eeked out and he was empty. He could work with empty. Empty was open to the option of getting filled back up with something new.

His hands were shaking so he took them off of the table. Maybe he ought to go in the den and draw, at least to keep himself busy. Or maybe he could just lock himself in the bathroom and not have to deal with Bucky _knowing_. Bucky could just figure it out, that Steve was hiding, and leave him out of it.

There was a rumbling in the hall and Steve’s eyes snapped to it, clenching and mashing his fists together in a sweaty fusion. He took a deep breath but felt it getting caught. It failed at its initial purpose and made him more anxious. The door handle moved, the door opened, and Bucky saw him sitting at the kitchen table.

He tilted his head, like he did, and Steve expected him to come out with a loud, ‘So, you aren’t in the army. Again.’ But his eyes seemed glazed over. There was something thick and clumsy about his movements as he stumbled in. Steve felt his haunches dropping and that fire licking back up. Bucky staggered in, gave a tired smile, and walked past Steve.

It took a good deal of restraint not to yell, ‘What are you doing?’ and it took more restraint not to turn and jump to his feet, watching Bucky stumble around their kitchen. 

Steve somehow managed to stay perfectly still, his stomach knotting in on itself as he grit his teeth.

Bucky muddled around at Steve’s back, cursed under his breath when he dropped a glass, ambled about until Steve erupted, “You been drinking.”

“You waiting up for me?” Bucky retorted. He didn’t make any ceremony of how he fell into a chair with a bottle and a glass--- _Just one glass,_ Steve scowled. Bucky mumbled, “You din have to wait for me.”

“I wanted to talk,” Steve grumbled, feeling his ears burn and thinking that this was going to top his worst expectation.

Bucky groaned into his glass and snapped it empty onto the table, his eyes seeming that dark way Steve usually didn’t bother with. He was looking thoughtfully at the bottle, contemplating something when he answered, “Bout what?”

Steve sucked in his cheek and focused on his hands, “I didn’t get in.”

“Knew you wouldn’t.” Bucky’s voice was light and content and Steve wanted to drive his thumbs into his eyes. He snapped a look up at him but Bucky poured himself another shot and sighed, “Anything else?”

Steve turned red and jumped to his feet, “You think this is funny?”

Bucky calmly put the glass down and leant back in his chair to match Steve’s demeanor. His face was resigned, and if anything this fired Steve up more. Bucky exhaled, “What exactly is funny about it?”

“You don’t think I could,” Steve shouted. “You think you know what it takes to be out there, and I ain’t got it. You’re acting like it’s a good thing that I’m _defective_ , --,”

Bucky rose to his feet, posturing over Steve, “Stop.”

“No!” Steve crossed around the table, “There _is_ a problem. You don’t think I’d even make it through training. You don’t think I’d get kicked out, you think I’d die. You--,”

“You wanted to talk, or you were just planning on yelling at me?” Bucky blinked.

Steve recoiled, opened and closed his mouth a few times but didn’t manage to make any sounds. It was true, Steve had been sitting here for the better part of an hour practicing over every line his brain wanted him to spit out. But like always, he somehow had managed to fuck it all up. More compassionate ideas boiled over in his head, but touched on emotions he tried not to have directly at Bucky. Or got angry at himself for having. Eventually he stumbled out with, “How did it go?”

“You know how it went,” Bucky huffed, sitting back down. He scratched the back of his neck and pulled the bottle in toward his chest. Steve chewed the inside of his lip, eyes tracing over those gestures, the dismissal. He ghosted a hand to Bucky’s shoulder but withdrew it when the other’s eyes snapped to him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Steve mumbled. He exhaled. So that was it. He shuffled into the den, out of eye sight, and silently screeched. He bit into his lip to keep quiet, but doubled over, his hands making a strangling motion. He wasn’t certain if it was Bucky, necessarily, that he wanted to strangle, but the gesture seemed to help. He took a deep breath and settled down at his card table turned desk, rifling through old sketchbooks. He started to scribble out a series of mean spirited notes, but violently crossed them out, ripping through to sheets of paper underneath. Realizing he did this pissed him off more; paper was expensive and he didn’t have much of it.

Steve huffed and dropped his pencil and looked around the tiny space. Bucky hadn’t gotten up from the table, he thought. Bucky didn’t seem to have moved at all. He wondered if Bucky was listening as quietly as he was, if his scribbling and grumbling had sounded like a very calm temper tantrum.

Just as he began to get self-conscious, the chair squeaked and railed against the floor boards. Steve held still as Bucky stepped around the corner and stood, looming over him. The blonde turned his head and Buck was hovering nearby, a faint smile on his face underneath a thick layer of disorientation. He nearly stumbled into the card table, but kept on his feet and swayed lightly. Bucky’s eyes were dark and sweet and Steve winced.

Square hand ghosted over Steve’s jaw and tilted his head up. Bucky took a breath and opened his mouth to say something, holding Steve prone and waiting. Instead he smiled and sighed and let Steve go, turning and dipping into the bedroom. Steve exhaled, tears threatening the corners of his eyes. Why couldn’t he just hit me, he boiled over. 

No, a voice in his head growled. No.

Steve sprang up to his feet and marched into the bedroom. “Buck, you need to--,”

He hesitated, swayed like he might be the drunken one. Bucky looked up at him despondently, sitting on the edge of the bed like he was balancing on a tight rope. He tilted his head, like he did, and Steve was paralyzed.

It rarely struck him that he ought to draw a moment. A pose, or a shape, or a scene, but never a moment that he didn’t want to let go of. He imagined if he had a more interesting life, got to be an adventurer or John Carter or something, he’d have moments he would want to keep. He wanted to draw this moment so he could tear it up. He wanted to burn it.

“What?” Bucky croaked. His voice went to the dark place that matched his eyes and made him seem metal rather than flesh. Like smooth stones sharpening a knife. And Steve thought the knife must have slipped in him.

Steve didn’t have a word for it, or a thought that could have passed as one. He swallowed and marched to the bed, sitting next to him. Their knees knocked together and Steve kept his eyes on the floor. Bucky didn’t make a joke.

The bed Steve normally slept in was in the den, really more of an old sofa. He said he liked it out there, that they didn’t need two beds anyway, that they were lucky to have the space that they did. That Steve didn’t want to be a bother when Bucky brought home girls, or have to see it. But frequently, this series of excuses got buried under the times Steve claimed this bed as his own. It wasn’t something they discussed, just did. Innocently. Each time leaving Steve more confused than before. And Steve exhaled anxiously, waiting for the other to act.

Bucky didn’t. He just looked at the floor just the same, before muttering, “I got basic in two weeks.”

“That’s it?” Steve’s voice warbled so he didn’t say anything else.

Bucky exhaled. The bed shook but neither acknowledged that it was Bucky. “So we have two weeks to figure out what you’re gonna do. I don’t think you make enough to keep the apartment. I paid out for the next two months, though, so you have some time to get some money together. And Ms. Flores,”

“Buck,” Steve grunted.

“is willing to maybe lower it,” Bucky mumbled. “You’re going to have to take care of her cats, though. Dunno if you can with the allergies. We’ll figure out a way for it. If you start giving Stel those drawing lessons like she asked, she could,”

“Buck,” Steve raised his voice.

Bucky fell silent. Exhaled again. Steve slid an arm around his friend’s back, which only made Bucky pull away further and Steve cling on more. “Won’t matter.” Steve was confident. “I won’t be here.”

Bucky doubled over. Steve jumped and stared at the empty space his hand had been touching. The other snarled, “Stop talking like that!”

“Buck,” Steve whimpered.

“You’re not going!” Bucky snapped, straightening back up and rounding on him. “Stop saying you’re going! You don’t owe anyone anything! You don’t got to prove anything! Stop it!”

Steve pulled away and Bucky covered his face, doubling over his knees and snarling into his hands. He heaved a few breaths before rounding on Steve again, “Say you’re not going.”

“Buck!” Steve snapped.

“Say it. Say I’m not going.”

Steve began to breathe heavy, a small flicker of worry that he’d have a panic attack. Instead he grit down his teeth, “I can’t say that.”

“Steve,” Bucky pleaded, whatever walls he had been working to uphold falling away. He grabbed onto Steve’s shoulders, “Just say you’re not going. They don’t want you, Steve. It should be easy.”

“No,” Steve locked his jaw.

Bucky released him and huffed, looking around the room. His nails digging into his arms as he closed himself off, still shaking. Steve swallowed back a taste of bile and unfolded, “I’d go for you.”

“Stop it!” Bucky whined, collapsing sideways onto the bed. He brought his knees up and nearly kicked Steve off, burying his face against a pillow. “Christ, Steve. Just shut up.”

But Steve calmly laid out beside him and tucked an arm over Bucky’s waist, “I’d go for you. I’d go with you.”

Bucky groaned and attempted to smother himself.

“It’s a pretty good offer; you’re just too drunk to see it.” Steve forced his voice to lighten. “All we have to do it make me look like you. That wouldn’t be so hard.”

“Shut up,” Bucky grumbled again.

“Come onnn,” Steve smiled and pressed his face into Bucky’s neck, “I just have to get fat.”

Bucky shifted, “ _Really?_ ”

“Oh yeah,” Steve laughed and settled against Bucky’s chest, “It’ll be easy. Just drink a lot, wear tall shoes. I got it covered.”

“That’s what you’re going with, huh?” Bucky sighed.

“Yes.”

“That’s the plan?”

“Yes, and fuck you if you don’t like it.”

Bucky laughed but there was a sigh in it, nearly a whimper. It made his heart stutter and Steve quickly pulled away to frown at him, that stupid line in his forehead, and Bucky was turning away just as quickly as he was smiling, a push in his voice, "We should go out."

" _Buck_ " Steve protested, sitting back up and locking his arms around his knees.

"Come on," Bucky urged. He'd meant his voice to be inviting, but that push was still there. The pressure to force out words and have them sound happy. He swallowed the next thought because he didn't want it to turn mean, and instead strained, "I want to."

"No, you don't," Steve insisted. Somewhere there was a looming 'not after last time' but they both danced around it.

Bucky sat up, considered pulling his shoes back on, considered storming out of the apartment, "Yes, I do."

Steve's shoulders drooped, and everything in that stubborn brain of his wanted to go through the laundry list of why it was a terrible idea and how many things could go wrong. Bucky leant into his space, aggressive but pulling to hold himself back, whispering, "I want to, Steve. Big dance hall full of people, hot and muggy and smelling like sweat. Some kinda music that don't make sense but you don't have to listen unless it's sad and you're sad and you drown in it."

"You're supposed to be convincing me." Steve mumbled. He also considered pulling on his shoes, walking out of the apartment, strolling around the corner and disappearing for a few hours until Bucky was well gone and couldn't turn any heat on him.

Bucky exhaled, drawing deeper into Steve's space, "I want to get in a fight. Or see some girls. Or _something_. Just something, Stevie."

"Tell me how it goes," Steve mumbled and was back on his feet, pacing toward the door.

"No," Bucky snapped, chasing on his heels. He grabbed Steve's arm and pulled him in, "I want you to come with me. I want to see you out there, please."

"You want to prove I can handle myself without you?" Steve gave a smile fit to be full of pointed teeth. Bucky withdrew, considered punching him in the head but held it in. Instead he clanged into their kitchen and went fidgeting for a new glass.

Magic, that is. He could never seem to find his damn glass after he put it down. 

Steve turned and faced him, but neither spoke while Bucky drained out some sour mash that ran a dollar a bottle.

He thought he might bite a hole through his lip, since watching Bucky rarely inspired more than worry in him these days and this isn't the first time Steve has walked away. Bucky continud draining the rest of the bottle, ignoring Steve, knowing he was being watched and doing it partly for show. 

Maybe because Steve doesn't react, Bucky throws the bottle down against the sink, a loud crack breaking into the heat of the room. Steve flinches. The neighbors heard that. The block might have heard that.

Bucky rounds on him, but he's speaking in that pressured, soft way, "I want to go dancing with you."

Steve lowered his shoulders and sighed, "I _hate_ going dancing. After the last time..."

Bucky blinked back dumbly, some light behind his eyes flickering like it might shut out soon. He staggered into Steve's space and drew a shaky breath, "But I want you to."

And here it comes, Steve thinks. The eyebrow raise, over-praising comments. The promises of finding him a girl or buying him gin or, worst of all, how happy it would make him. And then, once he hit on that vein and it started spilling everywhere, Steve would probably slip on the outpour of compliments and begging until his heart ached and he said, 'fuck it, fine.'

"I want you to," Bucky pleaded, stepping into Steve's space. His voice went dark and sweet, despite being thick and tired--so goddamn tired, and Steve buckled slightly when he got caught in his eyes and found himself scoffing. Because any emotion other than anger found a way to come out angry. Bucky didn't pull away, pulled in more, kept the gaze and the visual whimper that was his ugly face. And Steve scowled at him.

"Steve," Bucky pressed. Something had shifted. The room was startlingly quiet now, enough that the sound of the bottle smacking into metal rang in Steve's head like an unfocused memory, and his heart started to whine and throb in his ears. And he realized, like a ghost outside of his body, that they were just _standing_ , staring at each other, both breathing uncomfortably in tandem.

Steve sought out a defense mechanism, "After last time."

Bucky raised his eyebrows, the deep rhythm in his voice shattering, "Last time?"

Steve opened his mouth but quickly looked away before he answered, "You were too drunk, you're on your way to too drunk now. You weren't thinking, you--,"

"I danced with some guy," Bucky nodded slowly, his movements like he was moving through syrup, sticky and shuddering. He gave a large, sad smile, eyes glazing, "Because I was _drunk_."

Steve sighed, "I don't want you getting hurt."

Bucky laughed bitterly and wandered back into the bedroom. His absence made the room drop thirty degrees and Steve was worried when he failed to puff out a breath of smoke. Buck hadn't slammed the door, Steve thought, which was an improvement. Steve lingered in the doorway after him, watching as Bucky threw himself back on the bed face first.

"I just don't want you to," Steve managed, tripping over words. He had more things to say, he was sure of it, but the truth really did stop there. He drew a ragged breath and mumbled, "If you go out there, and you get drunk like that again, it's not like getting drunk at home, Buck. You don't know who that--"

"Right," Bucky pushed himself back up but only enough to respond. He didn't turn, wouldn't look. "I'm not fourteen anymore, it might be _dangerous_ now."

"Buck," Steve felt something deflate. He went into panic mode. He thought of about fifty retorts, answers, snarky comebacks that could help escalate them into a fight. Really, they were already there. They were there when they went to the recruitment office, when the letters had been sent out, when the war broke out, when Steve first looked at James Barnes it seemed like they were on the verge of fighting.

About fifty other answers sprang to mind, too. The nice ones, the comforting ones, the ones that were generally harder for Steve.

He felt acid start to rise from his stomach, his chest hollowing out, "You're being melodramatic. Just tell me what you need right now. What do you really want?"

Bucky spun around, misinterpreting how this action was accomplished and tripping. He exhaled, heavy, looking at Steve. "Why can't I just want to go out and get in a fight? Why isn't that enough? Why does there have to be something I _really_ want?"

Steve leant into the door, pushing his weight on it, "Because it's never about drinking or fighting or girls. Just talk to me. You want to convince me to go out you have to work harder than that."

Bucky perked up slightly, realizing this was Steve's concession speech, but then darkened again, "I don't want to talk to you."

"Buck,"

"You just don't want me going out cause you think I'm gonna embarrass you." Bucky pulled his knees up under his chin. "Y--you think I'm gonna get drunk and loose and go after s--some guy and ditch you there." 

"Well you will," Steve snapped.

Bucky's eyes went wide and he cuffed his legs to him tighter and he exhaled sharply and Steve's vision went fuzzy, "You're not," Steve back tracked, "You're not going to embarrass me, that's not what I meant. I meant...I mean, Buck. You don't. You could never, it's not about--,"

"You should go now," Bucky swallowed hard.

"I'm not gonna," Steve continued, his chest feeling tight. "That's not what I meant, Bucky. I'm not...no, I,"

"You should go now." He repeated, harder.

"I'm not going anywhere!" Steve planted his feet, his head feeling light. "Not until you know that's not what I meant. You...You're gonna ditch me, Buck. You always do. You always leave me like I'm supposed to be all right with you going off, like I'm not supposed to feel any way about it...you..."

Bucky didn't repeat himself, but Steve could have sworn he did. He began to ramble harder, faster, more and more panic flooding his head. "You could never embarrass me, you're all I have, Buck. And you just _leave_ me when you know how I feel. You know how people look at me, how I never get any time from anyone but you. And you just, you expect me not to care that you..."

Steve was leaning on the doorjamb now just to stay upright, "You can't leave! You can't always leave. I...I don't want to get left behind. I don't want to always be left behind!"

The panic started strangling him and Steve swayed, keeping upright by digging his nails into the wall. Pulses of white light blinked at the corners of his eyes and he gasped, "I...I don't."

Bucky's arms came around him and held him upright, Steve hyperventilated into his shoulder and tried to piece together when Bucky had gotten up, when he had crossed the room. Steve whimpered, burying his face against muscle and bone and feeling too light and too small. Bucky's movements were too unfocused; he held on too tightly, gripped too hard, Steve thought he might have bruises if Bucky didn't crush him first. 

"Just breathe, Stevie," He whispered, but the edge to his voice was still there. And Steve heard it and knew: he doesn't think I can survive. And Steve snarled at it and tried to pull away. Any exertion made him feel weaker and when his body didn't want to respond he gave a strangled sob.

"M'sorry," Bucky whispered. His voice was slow and low and Steve thought he might pass out when he heard it. He relaxed into him and felt the dizziness in his head building to a fog.

"Don't go." Steve muttered, his breathing starting to lapse.

"No, not without you." Bucky promised, nuzzling his face into Steve's hair. Steve smiled briefly and though his fingers felt like they were falling asleep. Bucky shook him lightly, "Come on, keep breathing. I'd rather you be hyperventilating than pass out."

" _You'd_ rather," Steve garbled. 

"Come here," Bucky kept propping him up, but pulled Steve toward the bed. Steve mumbled again, "Don't leave me here."

"I won't." Bucky grunted, doing his best not to stagger or slur. He might have said anything to shut that mouth, but thinking too long on it meant thinking too long on Steve's mouth, and he didn't care to do that right now. 

He lifted Steve up onto the bed and let him fall out of his hands, both of them shaking. And he thought Steve was cold, or maybe he's just hot, and his head was swimming and he wished he hadn't drank so much, and Steve is smiling at him--and goddamn asshole--and Bucky thinks the room is starting to spin.

The urge to vomit hits him like a rail car and he jolts on his feet, not sure what direction his brain is telling him to run in. Can't just leave Steve, can't, but...

Bucky bolts from the room and Steve grabs the pillow behind his head, slowing his chest down and thinking _Idiot. Goddamn Idiot._ He wonders if he could smother himself, thinking this might be his best option, and a pretty easy one given how quickly his lungs want to start attacking him. Might not get this chance again. Steve counted breaths, tried to keep his eyes squeezed shut. And in the other room he hears retching and he starts to laugh.

Can't help himself, _I really can't, Buck,_ he starts to argue in his own head. Like a damn Punch and Judy show, they are. Clowns could do a good pantomime of their act, running back and forth, yelling in circles and arguing in squares. And then the big finale, panic attacks and vomiting.

Steve keeps giggling, pulling the pillow over his face, his chest racked with confused convulsions until he just feels too damn tired. He hears Bucky stagger back into the room and feels him slump down on the bed, the mattress whining at them.

"'mmitting suicide?" Bucky mumbled.

Steve lifted the pillow from his head, "Don't need to, my body is trying to kill me."

"Mmm." Bucky grumbled, burying his face into the meat of his arm.

Steve exhaled, noted the heat radiating off of the body curled next to him. Forced his breathing to feel somewhat regular. He turned toward Bucky and felt his chest tighten again. Eyelashes fanned over his cheek, delicate enough that each seemed placed there, just slightly dampened, enough to stick to his lids. His breaths coming out in soft puffs though his face stayed frozen. And Steve felt drawn, like he ought to be rubbing his back and whispering _something_ good.

Bucky sniffled and gave a bleary look in his direction before Steve worked up the nerve, "That's good then."

Steve gave a weak smile, "Yeah."

Bucky slapped a hand clumsily to Steve's chest, "Imma sleep a while, don' die."

Steve laughed, "Kay."

\---

Steve drifted off fitfully, partly because fighting the urge to pass out had left him with a surge of energy he couldn’t wind back, and partly because Bucky’s hand pinned him.

He’d stared at those stubby fingers a long while. Maybe not stubby, maybe that was the wrong word, he reasoned. But they were thick, and square, and they had more meat on them than a normal person’s fingers should. They weren’t hands made for being delicate, or artistic. They were calloused and used to having to lift things up onto his shoulders and tote them around. One of those things being Steve.

He sighed.

Bucky normally snored. Like a goddamn lumberjack. So the silence in the room had Steve off balance. He wondered if it was possible to be too drunk to snore.

If this was a normal night, Steve would have been out on his couch in the den drawing, or at his card table drawing, or on the fire escape drawing, and Bucky would have rummaged around doing…whatever Bucky does while Steve is drawing. Steve thought about it for a long moment and realized he wasn’t actually sure.

Bucky would sometimes just sit next to him and make fun of his drawing. Or would go down to the store and talk shop with whoever was around. Or would sneak a cigarette onto the fire escape and watch traffic. He seemed restless. He’d ask Steve to go places with him, or he’d get bashful and not want to bother Steve while he was working. He’d tease him about the WPA or about being an art school drop out, but then jump on Steve to point out that _he_ never finished school and that he worked whatever mill or dock or shop job he could find that week.

Every once in a while, he’d vaguely mention girls. He’d say he was going out on a date, say he met a girl at a club, say he was going to bring someone home. And sometimes he did, and Steve would stay out of his way. But Bucky always watched for a reaction.

He never talked about when they were younger, unless he was talking about Sarah, or about Steve. And Steve would notice and his eyes would ghost over Bucky’s expression and prod him. And Bucky wouldn’t take the bait, would clam up, would change the subject.

And Steve felt sick.

Because looking at him now, Steve couldn’t see the big tough smile or the hurriedness or the sheer volume Bucky had. Bucky was _loud_. Steve thought that’s how they’d started being friends. Because growing up with your head feeling like it’s underwater, actually being able to _hear_ someone whose voice cut through it…

Looking at him now, Steve saw Bucky as vulnerable. Because there had been plenty of nights where Bucky had sighed and muttered, “Might as well join the army,” and Steve had said no and told him things would get better and he’d find a steady job.

His skin seemed pale, might have been the night air or might have been the vomiting. Steve traced his eyes along Bucky’s jaw and watched the small movements in his face as he breathed. The lines blurred between his face as an adult and his face as a child. He still had the cleft in his chin and his face was just a bit too round. His jaw was a puzzle piece of angles. His body had filled out, gotten larger, but his eyes still seemed too wide, and his mouth…Steve stopped himself. 

Bucky had managed to look like no one Steve had seen. Definitely not like George. So maybe they had the same cleft in their chin or the same hair or the same eye lashes. And maybe Bucky was the same height or looked like him from behind. Bucky was not, and would not, be like his father. Even if he had started drinking and gotten himself in the army. Steve wouldn’t let that happen.

Steve exhaled, feeling the weight of the hand on his chest, stamping him down. Such a square mitt, he grumbled, remembering when Bucky had broken his thumb playing manhunt in the street. And Sarah had popped it a certain way and set it. But it was always just a little too pronounced. 

And how Steve had stared at the whole event, from broken jutting shape to the loud sound of bone shifting to Sarah bandaging it up. And Bucky had just sat there calmly, not a damn tear, acting like it was nothing when Steve knew he was hurting. And Steve had begun rubbing his own hand raw and picking at his skin.

He still rubbed his hands when he was nervous for Bucky. He’d scratch and build up scabs, and Bucky would yell at him that his hands were how he made money. But Steve worried anyway, and if he was going to worry he had to direct that energy somewhere. His hands were what he was good with; if they could take ideas out of his head, they could take the worry out too.

Steve sighed and scratched his hands together, holding them over his waist and wondering if Bucky would ever roll his ass over so he wouldn’t be pinned down. But he liked the weight there. Gave him something to breathe against, feel himself move, know he was doing all right.

He tipped his head back and fell asleep.

\---

 

Steve woke up startled, taking a deep breath and bolting upright out of Bucky's bed. He immediately caught himself in the chest and coughed, holding his ribs and instructing himself that whatever had just played behind his eyelids, it was gone and done now.

He took a moment to calm, to scan the room. Bucky was missing, but the window was open and with a faint smell of tobacco Steve exhaled and worked up to his feet.

Typically, Bucky wouldn't smoke. Not when Steve was home. And not when he was sober.

He would smoke when they went out, when he'd had too much liquor and he wanted to make his heart skip. And sometimes he'd go running off into the night, as self destructive and burning up inside as ever, with enough fire in his lungs to light his cigarettes without a match. 

And some rare nights Steve could convince him to come home instead of following a pretty face. And he'd be drunk and listen to music and smile to himself, standing in front of the radio, pressing his forehead into it, talking to it like an old friend. And he'd open the windows and slip onto the fire escape, and he'd breathe fire into his lungs and, if he was drunk enough, he'd tell Steve about the horses kicking in his chest and the rattle in his brain and the buzz in his fingers.

He'd hang off of the fire escape, swinging like a monkey, his legs dangling and he'd talk about being taken with the wind.

And Steve, he'd just sit there dopey eyed and listen. 

Steve put his hands and then his elbows onto the windowsill, dipping his head out until he spotted Bucky, back flush to a brick wall, his eyes squeezed shut and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His arms folded tight to his chest, knees curled up under him.

He didn't look like he was in one of his poetic moods. He squinted an eye at Steve and at sunrise and harrumphed a tired, 'Pah' as Steve split into a grin and stepped out onto the fire escape with him.

Steve sat, gave him a soft smile. "You don't normally come out here unless you're drunk."

"It's too high up." Bucky agreed, a hand coming to take his cigarette away. He held his limbs tight in to himself, squeezing his knees beneath his chin.

Steve pursed his mouth, "We're three floors up."

"That don't mean nothing." Bucky's breath rattled. He added, somberly, "My brain is trying to kill me."

"You feelin' it, then?" Steve looked out over the alley. There wasn't much to look at, just another brick wall a few yards away from them. He looked up over the lip of the roof, the cracking rays of light breaking over dawn.

Bucky grunted, "If my head is going to throb, I am at least going to get to smoke."

"Probably going to make it worse," Steve warned, but his voice was too light to actually be scolding. His eyes were up on the sunrise above them and the clouds over head and the smell in the air of springtime and wet sidewalks. He exhaled happily, able to ignore the smoke in Bucky's nostrils.

"At least then I have the excuse of doing it to myself," Bucky hummed.

"You _did_ do it to yourself," Steve glanced in his direction. "You came home drunk, then you kept drinking."

"Yeah, but that was yesterday," Bucky cocked an eyebrow and took a drag. "That's a life time ago."

Steve smiled and looked back up, squinting at the bright yellow shafts of light hitting the side of the building across from them. Sun at their back, going to slowly rise above until it finds them like a search light, Steve grinned. It always seemed better in the springtime, when all the animals could come out of their frozen wintry shells--Steve included.

"M'sorry." Bucky mumbled.

Steve's head nearly fell off he snapped his neck to the side so quickly. "What? Why?"

"Coming in drunk," Bucky answered. And behind it lay 'I knew you were going to be upset and need to talk, and I chose to ignore that.'

And Steve responded, "Why should you be sorry for that?" Which was his way of saying, 'I am awful at any slightly emotional situation and act like a diva. Ignore me.'

Bucky smiled and flicked his cigarette over the side of the rail, immediately snapping straight backed to the brick wall and covering his eyes, taking several hard breaths, "Christ, I shouldn'ta done that."

Steve stood up and reached out a hand, "Come on, back indoors."

Bucky kept his eyes squeezed shut and huffed, reaching blindly and clasping onto Steve's arm. Steve felt himself grin, maybe even blush, glad Bucky couldn't see it. He eased Bucky back to the window and inside as Bucky pushed out quick breaths.

"To think you used to climb around fire escapes all the time."

" _Don't_ remind me." He hissed, shaking himself off once his feet were firmly on the floor. He coughed out the loose fibers in his lungs and dusted his hands. 

"Gonna have to get over it sometime," Steve prodded and Bucky screwed up a face at him, "Yeah, sure."

"I mean it," Steve grinned. He poked a finger into Bucky's chest, "You're meant for big things. Someday you're gonna have to jump out of the jaws of death, taking down bad guys left and right."

"Yeah, maybe in the army." Bucky mumbled, his eyes down. 

Steve pulled his mouth into a tight line and forced a crooked smile. He clamped a hand onto the scruff of his neck and pulled Bucky in, "Not where or with who that counts. It's you."

"Right," Bucky raised his eyebrows. "Life advice from Steve Rogers."

Steve pulled away and punched him in the arm, "Shut up."

"Don't hurt your hands, princess." Bucky chided, walking into the kitchen. "Need to make money somehow when I'm gone."

Steve looked at his feet and shuffled after him, walking into the den. He drew back some saliva and swallowed, managing to push out, "Don't need you around here, Barnes. You leaving means I just get the bed."

Bucky laughed, wandering into the den after him and collapsing onto the sofa. Steve sat at the card table and began shuffling through papers, glancing at Bucky curling into a tight ball away from sunlight.

An uncomfortable urge sprang up in Steve and he mumbled, "You need anything?"

Bucky groaned and threw an arm over his head.

"Head still throbbing?" Steve prodded further. He realized something had switched in his head and he wanted Bucky talking, he wanted his voice filling his head and pushing out everything. He wanted Bucky to describe the world upside down and inside out so that Steve could see it like he did and keep it in his head until Bucky got back home safe. So Steve could hide some part of him in his bones. And thinking that way made Steve taste an acrid, bitter flavor like gargling baking soda. 

"Yes," Bucky grunted, drawing a slow breath. "My heads a brass band, thank you."

Steve licked his lips and looked down at the paper, he chewed on his lip just as quickly, "Mind if I draw you?"

"No," Bucky mumbled. "Unless I have to move, then yes."

"Just one time." Steve offered, "So I'm not just drawing a potato with an arm."

Bucky shifted onto his side facing Steve, "There? That good? Can you shut up now?"

"Perfect," Steve smiled. He added, for good measure, "You're an asshole."

"Hm," Bucky grunted. 

The sun managed to hit no where in their apartment, least of all in the den, and Steve preferred the shadows because he had been attempting to work more with contrasts. If he wanted sun he could go outside.

The way the dim lighting hit Bucky now, Steve sighed, there would be large black and grey patches. He could map out the shapes first and worry about this second, but he decided instead to map the shape of the shadow rather than Bucky. It would look a little more stylized, Steve figured, and give him a longer amount of time and excuses to stare. Besides, he wanted it to be this light, this moment, and over the course of his sketching he knew that would change.

Bucky remained complacent and silent while Steve scratched away, playing with a charcoal nub. After the first fifteen minutes he shifted his head slightly, clearly realized he may have damaged Steve's drawing. "M'sorry!" He insisted anxiously.

"It's okay," Steve smiled, ears burning. He kept scratching away, "Just not too much, kay?"

"Kay," Bucky held frighteningly still, his whole body poised uncomfortably. Steve smiled at this too, "You don't have to hold your breath you know."

"Thought it might help my head," Bucky groaned. Steve chucked and scraped the coal along the paper.

After the first thirty minutes, Steve had enough of the shapes and the lightening that Bucky could have moved if he wanted to, but Steve hadn't said anything. He pressed in darker lines, making furrows and deep shadows by Bucky's neck and chest where his hands had curled up to him. His head bowed down. Steve smiled at it, blushed when he glanced up at the real Bucky, decided to keep his eyes down.

After forty five minutes, Bucky moaned, "I'm _dying_ "

"No you're not." Steve wrote it off, putting details into the couch cushions.

"I am, Stevie," He hissed, curling tighter into a ball. Steve didn't yell so Bucky got the impression it was an alright thing to do, and shivered. "My head is throbbing, still. And the floor seems way too close to me and the ceiling is so far away, and my stomach dropped out somewhere on the fire escape and it hasn't found it's way back t'me."

Steve smiled but didn't look away, still engrossed.

"It hurts," Bucky whined. "The world is thick and moving is slow and some things seem so far away and others are right on top of me squishing me. And it's like I'm here. I'm here and now, and this is reality, and how the hell did I get here?"

"You're still hung-over." Steve dismissed it.

"But whhhhy?" Bucky griped.

"M'done," Steve offered, "You can go in the bathroom and wash your head. Helps."

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, fumbling to his feet. "No," He slumped back down. "Steeeve, get me a towel? Please?"

Steve sighed but was back up on his feet before his mouth twisted into a protest. He kicked at the sofa as he passed it eliciting an angry moan. 

Steve sauntered into the bathroom and craned his neck to find a clean towel under the sink. Bucky kept saying this was a bad place to keep towels, but Steve insisted that this way when the sink started to leak there would be less of a mess.

He snatched one up before looking quickly into the mirror and sighing. A quick appraisal might have been better than the slow one that followed. He traced his own face thinking it was too damn thin and long, _he looked like a horse_. And his hair seemed dull as unpolished brass, his skin the color of sour milk. Shouldn’t have looked, he told himself. He quickly ran the towel under the sink and wrung it out, walking back to the den.

Bucky grunted when Steve bent down and pressed the towel against the nape of his neck, turning away. He hissed and Steve frowned, “You’re warm.”

“M’fine.” He argued.

“You drink any water, or you just relying on good luck and manliness to make your liver start workin?” Steve left the towel, brushing his hand off on his pant leg. He collapsed back into his chair, grimacing at the charcoal splotch he’d left with the water on his trousers. It occurred to him that he’d slept in his clothes, that he hadn’t even gone to the bathroom except to get Bucky a towel. He ought to change, brush his teeth, not be jumping right back into---He didn’t like the shading on second glance. Steve furrowed his brow and leant back over the paper and began smudging.

“Yes,” Bucky snapped back, bringing the towel over his face. “I’m a perfect specimen of mankind and I don’t want to get up.”

Steve was already a few light years away and had begun licking his lip and biting his tongue and squinting down at paper. His mind was focused on empty space and the physical boundaries of matter. Bucky lifted himself to look over the sofa arm, saw that Steve was no longer with him, and slumped back down with a sigh.

His head throbbed, loudly, and he closed his eyes against the growing light in the room and tried to ignore it all. Tried to will himself away, so that the only thing that existed was this couch because he was lying on it. And his heart, because it was in his ears. Occasionally Steve would grumble or there would be the scratching sounds of rock crumbling against paper. Bucky tried to tune them out. Tried not to strain to hear if Steve said anything, in case Steve said anything, even if some part of his brain waited for Steve to say something.

“Why you want to draw me?” Bucky prodded into the void. Steve didn’t hear him, kept scratching away, his brain focused on much more intense feelings and images. Bucky opened his eyes, snapped back into bright daylight and white walls and turned on the sofa so that his face peered over the couch arm. “Steve?”

Steve startled, tipping back in his chair, “What?!”

“Why you want to draw me?” Bucky repeated.

Steve shrugged, “What else do I got lying around?”

Bucky nodded and disappeared back under the sofa’s arm. He took a slow breath and stared at the ceiling. ‘Not because you want a picture of me, in case I die.’ He thought. He reworded, ‘Not because you want a picture of me?’ He thought it over again, staring at the ceiling as if it should inspire him. ‘Not because I’m going away in two weeks for basic, and you won’t see me, and then who knows where I’ll get shipped to from there, and I’ll only be home for little stints, and then I’ll be in _fucking Europe_ , probably? Or Australia. Some people go to Australia. What’s in Australia?’ Bucky scrapped this idea.

Then he worried that too much time had passed between his first comment and his looming second. And that he’d startle Steve again, and Steve would get frustrated at him.

So he kept quiet, the throbbing in his ears seeming a little more impatient with him. And he wanted to tell it to shut up, except that he was kind of happy to be reminded that he wasn’t dead yet.

“Buck?” Steve exhaled, at length. “Think it’s done. Think…” Steve looked around the room, “I think I should change my clothes. Did you eat? Did we eat yet?”

“We didn’t eat.”

“Okay,” Steve pushed back from the chair. “I…I’m going to do some stuff. What do you want to eat?”

“Anything,” Bucky grumbled and covered his face with the towel. “Nothing. Not fucking kangaroo.”

“What?” Steve cocked his head to the side, turning from mid step toward the bathroom.

“Nothing…”

\---

 

"You still feel sick?" Steve pressured, nudging a fork around in his bowl.

Bucky exhaled, his elbow on the table and arm curled up like a serpent to cup his jaw as he huffed. His head still throbbed, but the force had decreased. It was no longer a pulling, pushing, painful reminder; but a soft thrum which only hurt if he thought too deeply about it. An ache in his blood. He poked at the bowl Steve had set out when he'd yelled at him to get off of his ass and to the table.

"Buck?" Steve cocked his head to the side. 

"This isn't real food," Bucky mumbled, poking at broth and noodles.

"Yeah, but it's seasoned enough it might trick you." Steve offered with a shrug, slurping at his own before adding, "Come on. Put something in you before you pass out."

"Maybe I want to pass out." Bucky grumbled, but ate.

Steve kept his eyes on his own food, "You going to go tell them at the dock?"

It was the first that anything had been mentioned since the night before. Steve made sure he immediately stuffed his own mouth and chewed, his eyes clearly fixated on what he was eating, and his mind treating the statement like a normal comment. Not a comment that made his chest ache, or made him draw his knees together with a strange worry, like he needed to protect any soft bits in case Bucky threw the table.

Bucky treated it with equal nonchalance and tension, "Not going to bother. I'm leaving in two weeks, don't feel like working before then."

Steve nodded slowly and swallowed, eyes still on the table. Something shifted in his bones and he pressed, "So what do you want to do? Two weeks."

He flinched after he'd said it, because he felt like there were words missing. Like there was something unsaid that was very clearly close to his tongue, but he wasn't going to communicate it and Bucky wasn't going to understand.

Bucky shrugged, but internally his muscles clenched around a panic growing in his stomach. "I don't know. What would you do?"

There was a flurry of thoughts at this, but none of them stuck and brave as Steve could be, he didn't put any thoughts into action or voice. "Dunno....Think I'd go around drawing New York so I could bring it with me. If I had enough time, I mean. Might get upset if I forgot something."

Bucky considered this and swallowed whatever food was in his mouth, "Think I'm gonna lie down."

Steve watched wide eyed as Bucky rose and slunk into the bedroom, silent. He quickly swallowed down his own food, an itch in his throat saying he should have chewed more, and ran his chair back against the floor boards.

Bucky had just slumped onto the bed when Steve was at his heels.

"Hey," Steve put too much force in his voice, too much false excitement. "You ain't working anymore, let's just...let's just stay here all day. Not go anywhere. Except...maybe 'round midnight, go down to the diner and get coffee and watch the drunks in the street. I'll even buy it for you."

Bucky didn't rouse at this, staring quietly at the floor as Steve sat with him. Their knees knocked together and Bucky grumbled, "You're gettin fat."

"Gonna be a lot fatter without you around to eat my food." Steve smirked, but felt it dim in his ears before it finished leaving his mouth. Bucky gave a small hmmmph of agreement.

"What do you want to do?" Steve pressed again, knocking their shoulders together.

"You gotta work," Bucky pressed, but Steve grinned at this. "Me?" Steve laughed. "I just gotta draw some silly pictures. I can do that anywhere, any time. Hell, I can draw you. Make you the next Rosie the Riveter."

"Right," Bucky rolled his eyes, shooting a questioning grin toward Steve. 

"Oh yeah," Steve squinted at him, "Just gotta make sure the dress matches your eyes."

Bucky nearly shoved him off the bed he slapped his shoulder so hard. Steve laughed and leant into him, "What's wrong, doll, you don't want your picture taken?"

"Go to hell, Rogers."

"I'll make you look real nice," Steve grinned, sliding an arm around Bucky's shoulder. "Promise. All the boys'll--,"

"Stop it." Bucky flushed, enough color illuminating his face that he nearly brightened up the room. But, if Steve Rogers had ever learned something from Bucky Barnes, it was how to beat a joke to death.

Steve squeezed his thin arm until Bucky slumped toward him and the blonde grinned. "Promise me you'll let me draw you."

"If you just used that line on a girl, Rogers," Bucky shook his head, a smile still threatening at his lips.

Steve frowned, a chill creeping into his movements like a pain through his veins. "You're gonna have to teach me to get girls for myself, you know. Won't have your pretty face to lure 'em in with."

The color left Bucky's face but he gave an appreciative nod. "That'd take more than two weeks, I think." 

"Maybe if I'd had a better teacher," Steve shrugged. 

Bucky turned toward him, breaking away from Steve's arm and rounding on the blonde. He clasped onto Steve's wrists and pulled him to standing. "I am an excellent teacher."

Steve raised his eyebrows. His hair flopped into his face and he shook his head to part it as he jerked up onto his feet. Bucky released him and took a step back, giving a deep bow. Steve laughed despite himself, thinking the sound was too large for him. Bucky thought the sound was too large for the room. He straightened up and waited for Steve to return the gesture.

When Steve gave a respectful nod, Bucky stepped into his space and took one of his hands, Bucky's other arm twisting around Steve's frame. "Since you're such a gentleman," Bucky's voice dropped an octave, his eyes an electric pulse of light fixed on his target. Steve froze, "You really ought to take them out dancing. Food, or whatever, is never gonna give a girl the right idea."

"The right idea?" Steve cocked an eyebrow and sighed, but his chest began to feel tight.

"That you're good in bed." Bucky nodded. "All of dating, all of society really, is a string of ideas people got to convince other people they were good in bed."

Steve laughed again and had to turn his face away. Bucky planted a hand under Steve's shoulder blade and guided him closer, smiling. "Don't laugh at society, Steve."

"So," Bucky cleared his throat and Steve returned his attention, a smirk already burning into his face. "In a perfect world, you never get closer or farther apart than this. Important to show you have good boundaries, Rogers. Don't want to seem too desperate, don't want to seem uninterested. 

"A good lead is all about your frame," Bucky dipped his head. Steve tilted his head to match the way Bucky seemed to always tilt his. His eyes became fixed on the way his eyelashes seemed to contrast against his skin before Steve decided this was probably inappropriate.

"Nuts," Steve mumbled. "I'm not known for my frame."

"You will be," Bucky asserted, his voice growing more color, a depth that filled the room. "Size doesn't matter,"

"If you say 'its how you use it', I will kick you in the balls."

Bucky flashed a smile, "It's about balance. If you're going to lead a dame, she has to feel your weight, your center of balance. It's your momentum that moves things."

"That's not as encouraging as your face is telling me it's supposed to be." Steve frowned.

"Put your hand on my goddamn waist and stop talking." Bucky rolled his eyes.

Steve huffed a sigh and held Bucky's side. Bucky drilled his eyes into him until Steve shrugged and Bucky shook his head, "Okay fine. Your partner is supposed to feel like they're being carried, not pushed. You have to be the center point. So where's your center?"

"Can I have a hint?"

Bucky swallowed, his brain searching for something, "When you're about to fall and you have that fear in the pit of your soul, that lurch, that oh shit I'm about to be injured. That is your center."

"I'm taking your word for it," Steve nodded.

"So, if you're leading, my center of balance is yours. Your partner is part of you. That's where the 'look how good I am in bed' thing comes from. You're showing off." Bucky exhaled. "So long as you can make a dame feel like you're the center of the universe, then don't worry about much else."

Steve rolled his eyes, "Oh, okay. So just be perfect. Gotcha."

Bucky smiled, "You're doing fine."

"Am I?"

"You are not a good liar," Bucky nodded, grinning, "So you need the sarcasm thing. It's your last leg, buddy. The more brutally honest you are, the more charming it'll be."

"So I should just say I'm a bad dancer, and imply I am bad in bed and then society will crumble?"

"Honesty is not stupidity, I don't know who taught you that," Bucky shook his head. 

"It's a good thing you're not honest," Steve nodded. "Probably helps convince all of those women that you're good in bed."

Bucky exhaled, "I'm not liking this date very much, you should probably compliment me before I throw my drink in your face and tell all of my friends how small your penis is."

Steve sighed, "And how should I do that?"

"Be observant." Bucky shrugged. "You're going for the honest angle---your only chance really--so just say what catches your eye." 

"What if nothing catches my eye?" Steve huffed. "What is the thing that catches my eye comes off really _creepy_?"

Bucky drew a breath and exhaled slowly through his nose, swallowing back any salvia, before saying, "You always have something to say. Always something on that tongue that just won't sit still."

"That," Steve grumbled, "Was that a compliment or are you making fun of me?"

"That was drawing at straws when you have nothing nice to say because the person is terrible." Bucky beamed, "Sort of a 'I don't really care, I just would like to touch you, please.' You can always step in closer when you're doing that."

Steve smiled, "Somehow don't think that'd apply to me."

"No," Bucky smiled, his face burning. He shook his head, softening, "Here's what you should do. If you don't like a person, walk away. Don't waste your time, it's worth something. And if you do like them, and if you're overwhelmed by her beauty and can't come up with a nice thing to say, you talk about yourself."

"Sounds conceited," Steve's ears were burning. Bucky's gaze held him a little too strong, and Bucky dipped his head and smiled and Steve's ears burned.

"No, because _that's_ what you're going to say. You're going to say exactly how flustered you are, or what you're feeling, and if she doesn't respect that, then she's not worth the energy." Bucky told his feet.

"Say what's going on with me," Steve repeated and bobbed his head in thought. 

"I'd give you an example but I'm not the honest one."

Steve looked up at him and exhaled slowly, "Your voice got too soft just then, Buck. And...I'm not good with words and I don't know what I'm supposed to say. But, you told me to say how I feel so...worried. And profoundly sad. And like I'm trying to smile but it's not working. Not when your voice sounds like that."

Bucky swallowed and looked down, pressing his lips into a line. Steve kept a hand pressed to Bucky's side, still holding that stupid stance. He considered stepping in but scrapped the idea. "I feel like...like you haven't been yourself. But when your voice sound like that, even if it's not the person who you keep pretending to be, at least it's you. 

"And I'm so goddamn thick," Steve laughed, realizing a flood gate was open. And while some voice in his head yelled 'abort! no! stupid! bad!' he exhaled, "I don't get jokes sometimes, even when I'm the one who made them. But you laugh and I know I must have done something right to make you break that character. I'm naive, and I talk like I have this world in my head that I understand, but you're the one whose been out there exposed to the elements every time. I just want to be able to go with you."

"I don't want to have this fight," Bucky's voice was low.

Steve took the plunge and stepped in tight to Bucky, pressing his forehead up to Buck's and whispering, "It's not a fight. It's not. It's who I am. Please just listen. 

"Because you," Steve realized his fingers were digging into Bucky's side, buried into a bicep after Bucky had let go of his hand. " _We're_ stubborn and we have our experiences and our confusion and our issues, and they're different. But we're the same. And I can't..."

Bucky turned his face away and Steve felt his spine hunch, an involuntary slouch as he drew a rattled breath. He still clung onto Bucky for dear life. "You're not my best friend, you're not even my only friend. Or my family, or...You're everything. And I can't..."

"Steve," Bucky murmured, his eyes down.

Steve loosened a hand from Bucky's side and slid it against his jaw, feeling Bucky flinch and grit his teeth against it, his eyes slowly moving up to meet Steve's. His skin was warm and his eyes were darkening rain clouds, the sky turning from blue to grey. And Steve swallowed back his anxiety and pressed his face forward.

Bucky startled and Steve could feel the jerk under his hands, his initial urge to pull away before every muscle clenched. There was a moment where Steve had tipped his head up and pressed his mouth to Bucky's---where time had stood still and Steve and remembered how soft it would be and how it would taste. He breathed it in and flinched. Bucky's whole body closed like a fist, and Steve knew he was going to be punched. But when Steve had exhaled, Bucky's hands had roamed over his back. 

He pulled the blonde tight to him, enough to make Steve's eyes pop open and close again bitterly as Bucky deepened the kiss and reached up to pull Steve's hair. And Steve smiled and swallowed and wondered if Buck could feel that. It was a nice piece of poetry, to say you felt a smile, but Steve wondered if it was real. Bucky didn't seem to notice anything besides the pull and drive to force Steve against him. 

Steve began to panic, a worry setting in his chest as his body hummed and pulled at Bucky's; a second brain kicking into overdrive. He'd promised not to do this sort of thing. He hadn't kissed Bucky since they were eighteen years old and he had been crying and Bucky had tipped his chin and breathed his air and told him everything would be all right and Sarah would be watching over him. And that night he'd promised, _promised_ it would be the last time he tried to pull Bucky Barnes into bed.

He knew when he pulled away all hell would break loose, that Bucky would turn from soft to angry and Steve would be banished to his sofa. So Steve took the most logical course of action and decided he would not stop kissing Bucky. Indefinitely. He swallowed back saliva, Bucky's tongue pulsing against his, moaning against the hand griping his hip and pulling it to collide against Bucky's. And Bucky groaned into his mouth when Steve sucked on the tip of Bucky's tongue and pulled it deeper into his mouth.

And with each swallow, each pull on Bucky's tongue, Steve smiled and latched his hands on Bucky's hips, and pulled him in until they were stumbling back on the bed. Bucky moaned as he pulled away muttering, "Fuck" before Steve pulled his mouth crashing back down.

Steve moaned and locked his fingers into Bucky's hair, panting against him and murmuring, "Buck,"

Steve had made a fatal error. Bucky pulled away, pinning Steve's shoulders to the bed, like scraping gum off of his shoe. He panted and turned his face away, his weight still on the tops of Steve's arms while his feet found contact again with the floor.

A flood of excuses began to flood Steve's head, from rabid apologies to the most nonsensical 'Why did you kiss me?!' 

His breathing still heavy, Steve swallowed, and began to make fists at his sides. Bucky slowly turned his face back, his eyes squeezed shut. Steve drew deeply back into his soul, feeling he was growing smaller, and hopefully he would disappear or become small enough to escape without Bucky noticing.

Bucky's eyes opened, pupils blown wide. He licked and parted his lips, still looking swollen and pink, gasping out frustrated breaths. "S...Steve..."

"I'm sorry!" Steve gasped. He wanted his voice to sound stronger, more firm, but his chest ached and he was still breathing heavy, still feeling a thrum through his brain and fingers, wanting to pull Bucky back down and convince him somehow that this was normal.

"Steve," Bucky swallowed. 

"I didn't mean to," Steve's head began to spin and he considered grabbing onto Bucky's shirt to shake him and insist, "I meant to just, I just....Buck,"

"Steve," Bucky's snapped.

"Yes?" Steve closed his eyes and waited for the pain to crush over him as Bucky rejected him again.

"We can't..." Bucky sighed. 

But rather than a burst of anger, Bucky bowed his head down and racked in a harsh breath. Steve lowered his defenses and washed over the sight of Bucky as he began to shake. The blonde rolled out from under him and made room, Bucky slumping into the space his body had left and curling into the warmth.

Steve reached over and drew small circles against the back of his neck until Bucky adjusted himself, pulling in to Steve's chest. He began digging fingernails into the fabric of Steve's clothes. 

"I," Bucky whimpered.

"It's okay," Steve cooed.

Bucky chuckled, "My head is still throbbing, it's like there's two competing hearts in my head."

"Do you want me to,"

"No," Bucky whispered. 

Steve draped an arm over him and stared up at the ceiling, sighing that he would need to find something mundane to think about for the next ten or so minutes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve murmured, "...With you...,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1:[Muscle Memory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3549494)  
> Part 2: [Apple Pie and Dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3593934/chapters/7926957)  
> For updates and fun:[tumblr](http://asolitarygrape.tumblr.com/)

1943

Bucky pulled Steve up against his chest, cradling him, "Come on, Cap."

Dugan is shouting and Morita is pulling on his shoulders and there's a heavy fog descending down over his head and choking out thoughts and sights and feelings and Bucky is blind to everything and deaf to everything, and pulling Steve into his arms and bowing his head and chanting a mantra under his breath and with his breath until it is his breath, "Come on, wake up."

There's a high ringing in his ears and a dumbness to his feelings, a sense of being underwater or in a dream, or moving through a world made in a gelatin mold where reality is an illusion and no amount of counting back from ten can make this aching, swollen feeling find relief.

And Morita is trying to pull Bucky away, but Bucky is looking at Steve's face like it's a marble statute and they're standing in a museum and Steve is small and his hands are quick and he's whispering over Bucky's shoulder, "See how seamless it is? How smooth they can make it look? Like it could just start breathing, like you're waiting for it to."

And Bucky exhales and feels that light headed fog bite into his chest and he wonders if he's the statue. The blood calcifying and his mind slowing and his world becoming rock. And Morita is pulling Steve away from him and he can barely fight it, only leaving himself a moment to wonder, 'how did they get his eyelashes so long when they made him?'

Dugan slaps him and Bucky coughs and swallows and grabs for his head, the ringing in his ears abruptly replaced with gunfire and Dungan is still shouting and now he's gripping onto Bucky's arms and yelling, but Bucky can only make out every other word,"...Base...Captain...blood..."

Dugan shakes him again when Bucky looks vacantly back, "We need to get back to the base! Captain's losing blood!"

Bucky blinks and slowly nods until his body is moving and he's shouting orders at the others and the skin on his back feels thick and his shoulders are wide enough to carry anything, and he's grabbing for a radio and calling in the order.

And the ground is being over taken; strange sounds like bridge cables snapping erupt in the distance as the new weapons Hydra has been testing pulse blue light across the landscape. And Bucky is angry.

Angry like he hasn't been since he was a teenager, and his world was still sideways, and his blood had been black. As the others retreat back, and he looks behind them toward the tanks _galloping_ over the trenches and crushing their line, Bucky grits his teeth and his hands clench around his rifle until he's a rock standing in the river and men are gushing past him. And Falsworth grabs his arm and Bucky grimaces and pulls away and takes his shot at the turret.

There's a whistling sound and the tank erupts into blue flames and Bucky is grimacing, reloading the rifle and attempting to walk forward. But now Falsworth is locking his arms around Bucky's shoulders and messing with his aim and Bucky is cursing and trying to shake him off.

"Sergeant!" Falsworth screeches in his ear, but Bucky is angry. He's angry that there are more tanks, and men, and he wants the men to come, and he wants to force his thumbs through their eyes until he crushes their skulls and, "SERGEANT!"

Bucky is still trying to throw him off when Dernier comes running by and looks between the two. Falsworth cries, "Bucky, the captain!"

Bucky swallows and gasps and suddenly the rifle seems too heavy and it takes Jones running up and the three of them to drag Bucky back across the line toward camp.

Bucky next remembers being pulled into the medic tent, his whole body hurting but he's loudly thinking 'Why am I here' until he sees Steve thrashing against Morita while Dugan tries to pin him down. And blood is pouring from the side of the table into a sticky mess. And the tent is full of others, moaning and crying, but Captain America is kicking in the air and calling out and drowning the others in a tidal wave.

"Move!" Bucky checks Dugan aside and presses his hands down onto the Captain's biceps. He leans over Steve's face, getting close enough to bury himself in Steve's jawline, whispering against his skin, "Stevie, Stevie stop it."

Dugan runs from this table to the next, nodding to Barnes and shouting new orders into a radio. Bucky squeezes his hands, digging fingers into Steve's muscle and whispering, "Stevie, you need to breathe. Come on, Stevie. Let Jim look at it."

Poor Morita is heaving, looking like he might have taken a right hook or two in the process of trying to calm the Captain. And Bucky looks up and catches his eyes. Morita looks exhausted and run down, and Bucky begins saying, softly, "Steve Rogers, you don't need to fight."

But Steve is twisting and sobbing and his chest rattles out as the bullet holes make a sucking sound. Bucky keeps his voice low, "It's me, I'm right here Steve. I'm with you. I'll fight for you. Just hold still, buddy."

Steve gives a dry sob before he slowly settles against the stretcher and Bucky quickly buries his face to Steve's, wanting to hide a crying Steve Rogers from being seen by any of the other men. Fuck Captain America, Steve Rogers does not cry. Not unless he's hurt so bad he can't keep his head on, like when his ma died or when his nose broke.

"Buck," He whimpers and his voice is low and gravely and strained by the wounds sucking at his torso. He exhales and it's hot and wet and tears are burning with it against Bucky's neck as he tries to bury the blonde in his skin.

"M'right here." Bucky whispered. Steve gives a small, strangled breath and Bucky pulls away, nodding to Morita.

"He's got about five bullets in 'im, Sergeant," Morita's voice is low and his lip is swollen and Bucky corrects his thinking to that Morita definitely took a right hook from Captain America. "Until the med evac gets here, we got nothing to close him up with."

Bucky looks over his face and nods silently, leaning back into Steve's air and pressing, "Stevie, Steve, listen--You need to stop moving, okay? Gotta just breathe real calm. Morita's gonna take the bullets out--,"

Morita perked up, "Sergeant,"

"And I'm gonna help him," Bucky locked eyes with Morita and the other lowered his haunches and sighed. Bucky pressed his cheek to Steve's, "You gotta talk to me, though. Gotta hold still, all right?"

"Mm...Buck," Steve grumbled and Bucky exhaled, pressing his forehead to Steve's, "It's gonna be all right, I got you."

Bucky straightens up and swallows back the feeling that his eyes might fall out of his head. He clears his throat and steps around the table to Morita, both watching Steve to see if he would break his promise and start thrashing again.

"Okay," Bucky whispers and begins to open the Captain's jacket, pushing his hands against where the muscle is torn. Steve winces and murmurs and Bucky answers, "Yep, jus keep sayin' my name."

Steve's chest is heaving when Bucky rips his shirt for Morita to clean off blood. A cluster of bullets, six total though it seems two only grazed his side, buried themselves into Steve's ribs. Bucky pressed his hand against Steve's clavicle, trying to steady him. He looked worriedly at Morita, at the sweat Morita was not acknowledging run into his eyes. 

Bucky cleared his throat, "Hey Steve, you with me?"

"Buck," Steve grunted.

"Don't get too worried, now," Bucky rubbed Steve's shoulder, "I know how it looks, but I assure you I am just a human. This isn't heaven."

Steve gave a small huff and Bucky felt a smile burn into his face. He glanced at Morita. "You got something to dig these out with."

"Yeah," Morita turned toward the med kit and pulled out steel forceps, showing them off to Bucky. He stepped in close and Bucky pressed his hands down hard on Steve, steadying his chest. 

"Keep breathing for me, okay Stevie?" Bucky pressed, letting his voice get low and sweet. "Don't want you to get worried now, okay? Morita is gonna pull out a bullet---and I'm helping, but I'm gonna be right here, okay? I'm still with you."

Bucky swallowed and pressed his hands around a bullet hole that immediately sucked up at them and made a horrifyingly sticky sound. Bucky flinched and decided it smelled too much like iodine and iron in the tent. He gave a quick nod to Morita, positioning himself so that if Steve swung it would catch Bucky in the back. Morita nodded back, raised his eyebrow and mumbled, "Here goes,"

He pressed the forceps into the wound, causing Steve to kick out. But rather than hit he clenched his fists and yelled. Bucky had to be louder, "See? Not that bad. Don't be a baby. The more you move the more it hurts."

"M-move." Steve hissed.

"That's right, don't move." Bucky nodded to Morita who pressed the forceps in further, opening them enough to latch onto the splinter of metal in Captain America's chest. Bucky pressed his hands down hard, feeling the hitch in Steve, the quiver. He quickly whispered, "Got it Steve. See, ain't so bad. Just three more. Then we're gonna clean 'em out good and you'll be fine."

"Bucky," Steve snarled.

"Don't give me an attitude," Bucky grunted, keeping his voice light and his face turned from Steve. "I got the peroxide here in this relationship."

Bucky pressed down on Steve's skin, moving up his chest. He winced, thinking he could feel the tremor in Steve's skin, he could feel the wounds throbbing under his hand, and he bit into his lip. He looked at Morita cleaning the forceps. The two nodded. "Okay Steve, round two."

Steve took a deep breath and grunted, "Buck."

Morita pushed the forceps into the wound and repeated the process. Once each bullet was out Bucky exhaled and bowed his head. Morita nodded and stepped away, probably the worst for wear of the three of them. He turned back to the med kit and rummaged through it. Bucky gave him a moment before saying, "Okay Stevie, now's the fun part."

Steve grumbled. "Don't want to,"

"You're doing so good," Bucky turned toward his face, quickly pressing his forehead to Steve's before he got a full eyeshot of Steve's mouth twisted up in pain. The tears that were streaking down his cheeks as he clenched his teeth and hissed short breaths. Bucky rubbed Steve's jaw. "I promise, you're going to be okay. I promise, I swear on my life, we just gotta try to clean this all up. No more bleeding out. When med evac gets here they're not gonna have anything to do, okay Stevie?"

Bucky exhaled, feeling Steve's breath against his mouth and shuddered. He began to scream in his head and swallowed it down. "Stevie, you still with me?"

"Bucky," Steve mumbled.

"Okay good." Bucky swallowed.

He straightened up and looked at Morita who gave a very frightened looking shrug. Bucky made eyes toward the med kit and Morita swallowed and held his hands up. Bucky's face fell and he looked down at his feet.

"Okay," Bucky's voice kept being light, "Good. So, peroxide first, okay buddy?"

"Kay," Steve muttered weakly.

Bucky nodded to Morita and the two exchanged glances before Bucky put his hands firmly down on Steve's chest, looming over the blonde like he expected him to scream like hell. Morita held the bottle in a hand. He nearly asked Bucky what they planned to do after cleaning the wounds they couldn't close, but obediently kept his mouth shut.

Bucky mouthed 'two' at Morita, who nodded. Bucky sighed, "Count of three, Stevie."

"Three." Steve agreed.

"One, Two," Bucky hissed.

Morita poured the liquid over the cluster of bullet holes and Steve's back arched up into Bucky's hands, and Bucky grit his teeth and pressed Captain America down. "Okay Steve," Bucky sang, "Okay, you're okay."

Bucky dropped down onto a knee to press his face into Steve's neck, his skin hot and pulsing and his breathing short and fast, "Gotta be calm for me, Stevie. Gotta slow down so you don't bleed out. Slow down, Stevie,"

"Okay," Bucky grunted after a moment, pulling the rifle from it's leather and handing it to Morita. Morita knitted his eyebrows together. 

"We got something for him to bite down on?"

Morita shook his head, "I'd say we could give him a bullet, but he's Captain America, with our luck he'd shoot us."

"Okay," Bucky said quickly. He knelt down, getting into a manageable position and rolling up his sleeve, "Okay Steve, you're gonna bite down on my arm, okay?"

"Bucky," Steve whimpered.

"There's gonna be a loud noise, so don't get worried, nothing bad is happening. But when it hurts, you bite down on my arm," Bucky draped his arms over Steve's shoulders, offering up his forearm up to Steve's mouth.

The dawning look on Morita's face had him go from knitting his brows to his jaw going slack, "You're crazy."

"It's gonna be okay," Bucky said vaguely, looking up at Morita.

Steve trembled under Bucky's hands. Short, hot breaths moved the hair on his arm and made Bucky close his eyes, trying to remember the sensation, knowing it was about to be replaced with something else very soon. Bucky pressed his face to Steve's cheek, "It's gonna be okay, I'm with you, I've got you."

Steve murmured, "...With you...,"

"Yep," Bucky shook and pressed his arm against Steve's lips until the blonde conceded and opened his jaw. He looked up at Morita and nodded.

Morita took a large breath, sighing, looking anxiously around the medical tent. "This one won't be in the comic books."

Morita fired the rifle five times into the dirt, then flushed the muzzle to Steve's chest. Steve's teeth clamped on Bucky's arm and the world went white.

\---

 

Bucky bolted out of sleep as if there was a fire inside of him and he immediately fell off of the stretcher, gasping. Morita was on him in a flash and grabbing his shoulders, insisting, "Sergeant, _Bucky_ , you're all right."

But Bucky was throwing himself at something and his first scrambled thought that came into clear words was, "Steve?"

"He's fine, he's asleep. He's going to be okay, come on," Morita kept trying to coax him, lifting his shoulders out of the dirt. Bucky's body spasmed and he groaned and slowly his brain began to lighten and his heart hammering at ghosts started to fade. 

"Mm," Bucky grunted. "M'hurt, aren't I?"

"Yup," Morita finally got the solider to be complacent in sitting up and was dusting him off. Grabbing his good arm, Morita pulled him up from the floor and Bucky collapsed back onto a chair, covering his face.

"What?" Bucky stammered.

Morita dusted off his hands sighing, "You let Captain America bite your arm,"

Bucky looked at the thick cotton bandaging over his right forearm and tried straightening it, a stabbing pain shooting up his elbow. He winced and quickly bent it again, his fingers feeling light. Even through a near half inch of gauze, deep red circles were dotted through. 

"Turns out," Morita added, "He's got a hell of a bite."

Bucky looked up to his friend and, feeling the weakness through his arm, exhaled, "But he's okay?"

Morita rolled his eyes and smiled, opening the metal lock box full of medical supplies, "Whatever they juiced him up with, I'd say he's damn near immortal."

"Thank you," Bucky swallowed, looking back at his arm and attempting to make a fist. It stung, but the mechanics worked. He added, quietly, "I couldn't....if anything happened to him..."

"Nice as that is," Morita snapped shut the lock box and pulled a chair up to Bucky's side, "I wouldn't otherwise plan to just _let_ Captain America die. The government tells me he was expensive."

Bucky smiled but his eyes cast down and he felt the pressure building in his skull. Morita began to change out the bandage on his arm, and with each layer of gauze rolled away, deeper and stickier and thicker red marks grew until Bucky was wincing and groaning as if his flesh was being torn. The gauze seemed stuck inside of him and Bucky eventually grit his teeth and closed his eyes.

Morita's hair had been getting long and he'd adjusted his cap to keep it out of his eyes, but Bucky still thought he smelled a bit. They probably all smelled a bit. Morita, for some reason, he smelled like lilac trees dying in the summer.

Bucky scanned over him, intent on his work, and mumbled, "I don't give a shit how much money Steve cost the government. You _should_ save him because I say so."

Morita chuckled and pulled away the last layer, eliciting a teeth cracking hiss from Bucky Barnes.

"You two are something," Morita sighed. "He woke up for a few a little while ago and nearly took out Dugan because he wanted to know where you were. Needs to learn his own strength."

"He's not used to having it," Bucky mumbled. "But he was awake? He asked for me?"

"Told you," Morita nudged the bottle of alcohol in Bucky's direction so he would know to grab onto something. Bucky gripped onto the side of his chair and Morita poured it over the wound, saying, "He's damn near immortal. He _bit_ you and you went into shock."

Bucky sucked in air through his teeth and pulled his face away, the sound of blood fizzling under alcohol loud enough to drown out a retort. When he looked back, there was Captain America's near perfect set of teeth cut through his muscle. He grunted, "Jeeesus."

"Yup," Morita muttered, "Lesson for next time. Keep your hands away from his mouth."

"Jim," Bucky exhaled, leaning to press his shoulders onto the chairback, "C-can I tell you something I never told anyone?"

Morita glanced up at him, the same stoic expression as usual and Bucky gave a soundless laugh as Morita grunted, "Wouldn't expect you to stop talking now."

Morita added, reaching for the gauze, "I have a hard time thinking that there _is_ something that you haven't told someone."

Bucky worried his lip until he was able to swallow back a metallic taste, his heart suddenly breaking at his ribs and demanding his attention and demanding that he not speak. But he had to, he argued with it, he had to tell someone.

"When I was sixteen," Bucky swallowed, the smile still lingering like a ghost. "I had this reputation. I was living on the army base where my father had been stationed...there were these three soldiers who decided they were gonna take me up on it. 

"So," Bucky's voice cracked but the forced smile stayed, "They, um, they got me alone in a mess hall. And this one guy watched the doors and another tried to pin me down and they, um, the one guy had a knife and he told me not to yell. And," Bucky paused, trembling, "I remember thinking, the worst thing that's gonna happen to me ain't gonna be getting stabbed. So ...I threw myself at the knife. Isn't that stupid?"

Bucky gave a breathy laugh and Morita paused, was silent, then resumed bandaging his arm. Bucky sniffled, "So anyway, I...the guy just stabbed me and now he doesn't know what to do, cause I pretty much got his knife from him. And I just start thrashin' and I end up kicking him into a wall and he's out ...and the guy trying to pin me gets knocked out somehow and I ran the hell out of there. Guess I broke the third guys arm when I kicked open the door.

"And," Bucky breathed heavy, "And I just ran. And I kept running. I ran out of fucking New Jersey. And I had a knife in me. It was still _in me_. And I remember pulling it out and there was so much blood.

"Steve never asked." Bucky bit the inside of his lip. Tears were threatening his eyes. He swallowed, "I mean, he _asked_ but, he dropped it and I never said anything...And he cleaned me up and I slept in his bed, and in the morning when he saw how bad it really was, and all the bruises, he had his ma clean it out right and gave me a couple stitches. 

"That was how I woke up, with my head in Steve's lap and there was so much blood, again, cause every time I moved I made the damn thing worse, and his ma was stitching me up and telling him to keep me quiet and...she put two and two together, kept me hid in there when they came around looking for me, she even cried. She would just cry when she'd look at me for a while after that." Bucky's voice cracked and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"But Steve, he never let on if he knew what happened. And Sarah didn't want him finding out. And I remember in that second, when the pain hit me and I was awake, and I opened my eyes and he was there, I thought he was an angel. I didn't want anything like that to ever happen to him. I couldn't..."

Bucky laughed bitterly.

Morita and he caught eyes and Bucky quickly looked away, swallowing, "I guess, I guess what I mean is,..."

Morita nodded and taped off the bandage.

\---

Bucky rubbed grease between his thumb and finger, thinking he liked this smell more than most he'd encountered in his life. It reminded him of the summer, steel workers coming down from the mill and enlisting in the army after they'd had enough of the suburban life. He sniffled and returned to coating his patch in solvent, balancing the rifle on his knee.

“Hello,” She smiled at him with a stern but sickly sweet sounding voice that made Bucky wince. Like a vulture picking over a carcass, he though quietly. She was radiant, really, and in another life he would have said so. Would have looked her in the eye and put on a smile and told her just how pretty she was and ask her just what he should say or do to lure in a dame like her. But he knew enough not to put a face on, to be the ruthless self that was just beneath the surface and grinding its teeth.

She wore a blue dress, something simple that looked like it belonged in an office, with heels that looked like they belonged tossed thoughtlessly across a bedroom floor. She gave him a dark smile, framing her dark eyes, and Bucky’s world bore down around him. She regarded him like an animal; he thought, something unpleasant that she had to deal with temporarily.

When Bucky failed to respond she glanced down and stepped closer, trying to intimate the importance of their dialogue, “It was a real scare, almost losing Steve.”

“For who?” Bucky raised his eyebrows, lining the rod and the tip, pressing the cleaning rod into the barrel. “The US government? They tell us he was expensive.”

Her eyes faltered and she drew a harsh breath and her next sentence came out forced and angry, “You know better than I that Steve Rogers is more than _expensive_. He’s irreplaceable. And _I_ don’t care for your attitude.”

Bucky’s eyes lightened, he nearly smiled, but he quickly turned the gesture into a wicked one and grinned, “So sorry, ma’am.”

She accused, her eyes narrowing. “I am neither blind nor stupid. I read, very well for _dame_ , I’ll have you know, and I have read the reports that come across my desk. And my supervisor’s desk. And the Major’s desk. I read more than any person in the damn SSR.”

"Yes, ma'am." Bucky raised his eyebrows, replacing the patch and running it through the solvent again. "Very impressive."

"What I mean, Sergeant Barnes, is that I know that you will go to extreme lengths to protect Captain Rogers," She lifted her head confidently, "And I know that are dangerous."

Bucky sighed and rang a dry patch through the cleaning rod, "Look, ma'am, I   
appreciate you reading up on me, but I hardly think I'm dangerous."

"Mr. Dugan reported on the fifth that he had to physically separate you from a deceased Hydra soldier." She said coolly, her eyes never faltering. "He reports that your rifle had jammed and that you had killed the man with your bare hands, supposedly ' _beating the shit_ ' out of him until he resembled 'a stain'. Is that right?"

Bucky felt an eyelid flutter as he shrugged dumbly.

She cleared her throat again, "On the eighth of last month, Mr. Jones and Mr. Falsworth both stated in different reports that you refused to fall back behind the line and continued shooting at enemy, taking down two turrets before Captain Rogers dragged you behind the line under heavy fire.

"On the thirtieth of March, _Captain Rogers_ reported that you needed to be removed from a stealth operation on a loading dock for Hydra weaponry because you killed our liaison in the enemy base." She pursed her lips.

Bucky cleared his throat and lowered his rifle and cleaning rod onto the bunk in front of him, "Okay,"

"It isn't a question of will you kill for Steve Rogers, it's will you kill for the United States government?" Peggy nearly coughed politely into her hand, a mite flustered at her over confident statement.

Bucky cocked an eyebrow at her and sighed slowly. He rubbed his hands on his pants, "Look, Ms. Carter, like I said, I appreciate you read the reports,"

"You never file any," Peggy interrupted.

Bucky blinked at this and cleared his throat, "No, no I don't."

Peggy squared her shoulders and drew a breath, "Why is that, Sergeant Barnes? Laziness, or because every report I _am_ familiar with includes your misconduct?"

Bucky nearly moved to stand but wavered, "What exactly are you working at? You suggesting they gonna court marshal--"

"No!" Peggy quickly corrected, "No, no, not at all. Actually. I have sort of a mission for you."

Bucky nearly laughed, but instead shook his head and went about reassembling the rifle. Peggy edged closer, "What would you have done if Steve Rogers had died?"

"He didn't." Bucky huffed.

"But what would you have done if he did?" Peggy pressed.

Bucky looked up the length of her, and my god there was a length, and his stomach felt hollow and he nearly sneered reminding himself that this was Peggy Carter, and his mouth tasted like acid when he thought her name. And when he thought of Steve. And when he thought of most things.

"If Steve Rogers died?" Bucky repeated darkly. "I wouldn't do anything," He answered truthfully. "I wouldn't have a reason to."

"Good," Peggy smiled and it was a _smile_ , and his eyes washed over her dimples and her teeth and the twinkle in her eye and he thought _goddamn it_ did she have to be so pretty?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!! :)


	4. Chapter 4

1938

The air had a chill in it even though the summer had finally broken and every man alive in Brooklyn seemed to be humming and cheering their neighbors on about the sudden warmth outside. Bucky had encountered several such men while tripping over curbs and coughing into his hand and turning down an alley to vomit. They all seemed to smile back and shake their heads and lust after youth. 

The only woman he’d encountered outside at five A.M. had tutted her tongue and shook her head at him. And Bucky had grinned blindly at her and swallowed back saliva and taken a step into her aura. He’d thought it had been bashful, a small gesture of ‘oh you’.

She had hair the color of a rotting pumpkin; a deep orange that seemed to burn into the retina. And Bucky had intended to remark on that fragrance, but had instead stumbled into her space with a leer like a cheshire cat. She had scuttled away quickly in disgust and Bucky regarded her dress and her movements and decided she was unfriendly.

He looked up into the sunlight to clear his head, knowing his face was a sallow color and his eyes had bags and his mind was going steadily blank.

“You all right, boy?” A man called from a store front. Bucky squinted. Bakery. His stomach longed for him to rush inside it and steal something sweet and greasy and covered in real butter. It had been so long since he’d had butter, and the realization made him ache for it.

He swallowed again, his stomach taking a lurch as he fantasized about breaking the man’s head open and robbing the store. He smiled, “M’fine. Thanks.”

Bucky wandered down the street, shoving his hands into his pockets. He smelled like garbage, having passed out for a few hours in the alley behind the bar. He’d been so happy and his brain tried to chase back to that high. To the taste of rum burning down his throat, to the girl hanging off his arm and on her knees in the bathroom and he’d laughed and tipped his head back and hummed. He swallowed again. He tried to worm her name out of some coiled vortex of damaged nerves in his brain. Cindy? She looked like a Cindy. Maybe Sue. He was fairly certain he’d lost his virginity to a girl named SueAnn. That had been a miserable experience.

Not counting the other times he’d lost his virginity, he corrected. He rubbed his face and found himself looking at his hand, pulling his thumb to pop into the right place. Must have slept on it funny. By that dumpster, he reminded.

His clothes were a tattered mess of rags hanging loose off of him, his shirt pulled out of his waistband, and he didn’t know where the tie had gotten to. Maybe Cindy had it. He looked like he’d been beaten with a wet log. He rumpled a hand over his hair to smooth it out as he collapsed sideways into his building’s door.

He congratulated himself on finding his building.

Bucky was swallowing again. Too much saliva. He was going to vomit, his brain warned. Gonna take everything in that pretty little body and spit it back out. His stomach lurched and Bucky yelled at himself _No. You will make it to the bathroom_.

Pushing his hands on the stairs above him, crawling up the last set like a dog onto the third floor landing, Bucky exhaled slowly. He let his head swim and his stomach complain as it pushed itself up into his chest, and he pressed his face to the cool door and smiled at the familiar scent of wood dust.

He congratulated himself on yet another leg of his arduous journey appropriately vanquished.

He counted back from ten, attempted to center himself on the idea that he was going to make it to the bathroom, and scrambled upright. Dusting himself off on the off chance Steve Rogers decided to wake up before schedule, Bucky pushed open the door.

First was a crack as he misunderstood the door’s meaning by being open and walked into the door jamb. Then a fumble as the exertion of hitting the door triggered his stomach. His body screamed at him and he scrambled, his legs moving like turbines. Rolling over his own legs, hands out to brace himself, he managed to skitter into the bathroom down the hall.

His knees knocking onto tile, he clutched onto the sides of the toilet and gripped down. His body lurched and attempted to shed its skin. Bucky gasped and groaned loudly, bearing down.

A few dry heaves past the breaking point, his head throbbing loudly as his ears popped and jaw cramped and his head ached.

Swallowing and sitting back, feeling sweat spring out on his forehead, Bucky raked in several pained breaths and blinked. His vision blurred and he rubbed the water out of his eyes, sighing. He felt remarkably light now, jumped to his feet—poor idea, felt nauseous, stumbled—and rubbed his hands over his hair.

Looking in the mirror he winced. His eyes seemed dark, clouded, tired. His ribs ached from retching and his head felt light. Bucky rubbed water into his face and swished some in his mouth. Spitting he turned and staggered back into the kitchen. The world seemed brighter, the colors strained, and he peered around the corner at Steve in the den. The blonde was curled up, his knees tucked and head propped and a sketchbook in his lap. Bucky tilted his head, exhaled, blinked, turned and tripped into the bedroom.

Hands out to feel the walls, he fell onto a side table and ran his fingernails over the wood, groping for cigarettes. Crunching his hand around it, splintering the paper slightly, he juggled the cigarette up to his mouth. Falling over himself to find a match, he stuck it off of the table and brought fire close to his face before thinking ‘Fire should not be this close to my face.’

Pulling away, shaking the match out and drawing the burn into his chest, he puffed out a loud, large huff. He smiled to himself. _Dragon_.

He tripped over himself, stepping on his own feet. Stumbling out to the fire escape he gripped onto the rail as it caught him in the stomach. He laughed and groaned at the punch to his belly, white knuckling against the rail and smiling as he bent over the side. He spit at the dumpster below and nearly lost his cigarette, quickly gripping onto it and getting solid on his feet.

Breathing deep, letting the smoke burn him and fill him and make him smile and swirl in his chest, he pulled himself up on to the rail and dropped his legs over the side. He balanced himself, breathing hard, puffing smoke in and out.

Feet dangling, he began kicking them out. He was only three stories up, as Steve always reminded him, but he still felt queasy looking down. The lump in his belly gave an odd thump and he clenched around it, feeling uncomfortable. His hands ached from the awkward metal. Looking up he saw the escape rising stories above him. His head spun and he considered climbing it. Getting _real high_ and then looking down. His mind swam and his chest ached but he smiled at the burn of acid rising up from his stomach. If he got _real high_ then when he looked down he could die. He could have a heart attack on the spot. He could be spinning and dizzy and let go of the rail and down he’d go.

He closed his eyes, smiled at the air on his face and swallowed back his friend the pre-vomit saliva. His heart was hammering and he decided he was an acrobat, a real show stopper, PT Barnum would be proud. He reached up to the cross beam connecting to the next level, gripped his hand around it and steadied himself, moving about cautiously until he was standing on the rail. He took a deep breath and looked down, the whole of his weight balanced on that rail, his hands aching and protesting already. He let himself hang there and smile and his eyes were watering and his cigarette burned as he bit down into it. He considered, a tremble radiating through him, and slowly began to move his foot to dangle it away, so that only his hands held him up.

His body protested and his stomach dropped out and he gasped, gripping his hands against the crossbeam and thinking they must be bleeding, he has to be bleeding…

He threw his weight and fell back onto the metal grate, hitting it hard and calling out. His vision flashed white and he grabbed at his face, moaning a protest as his head began to throb. He pulled his hands from his hair and felt blood and saw blood and wasn’t sure what to do about it. His hands themselves were fine, nothing more than hard red streaks from the screws in the crossbeam and his own fingernails. He breathed hard, straightened himself out. Wondered where the cigarette got to.

Swallowing, panting, he covered his face with his hands and cried.

"What the hell?" Sarah dipped her head out of the window and there above Bucky Barnes was an angel. He whimpered up at her as a growl seemed to rise from that fine throat and he was caught in a spell when her arms grabbed onto his shoulders and shook him. 

"James Barnes-- _this instant_ " was all it took, and Bucky was scrambling on his feet. Her heavenly voice singing down to him like a sad coo. He murmured, a small groan rising from his soul as he pressed, "Mom? Why are you in my apartment?"

"Come on, honey," Sarah tugged him until Bucky scrambled to his feet. She took him under the arms and helped him step over the window ledge. She cradled him into her shoulder as he tripped on his own feet and grabbed onto his hair. Her hand pulled away blood and she sighed, nudging him along.

And Bucky smiled, feeling Sarah pushing him along, and thought to himself that this was the only person who'd ever pushed, or prodded, or nudged him along. Steve never pushed; Steve fought and he bit and he spit against a world of nudging and pushing. And that made Bucky smile too, before his brain could register being folded and bent and twisted into a configuration of curved limbs as he was guided into the bathroom again.

"How the hell did you get in here, James?" Sarah sighed, dusting him off. She gave a small laugh, "Wait, what did you ask me? This is _my_ apartment, honey. You forget where you live now?"

"Mom," Bucky whispered. He swallowed back more saliva, his eyes not cooperating, seeming to blink out of sync and refusing to stay open. "Think m'bleedin."

"Yes, James." Sarah sighed, a cool cloth coming to the back of his head and cradling him.

"Don't say nothin, Steve'll kill me." Bucky pressed, squeezing his eyes shut and whimpering. Sarah gave a weak smile and laughed, it quickly turning to a cough. She pulled away to cover her face and Bucky blinked sleepily at her.

"You okay, Ma?" He hummed and Sarah flashed a brilliant smile. She was a porcelain doll, pale and milky and her hair too fine to be the sort of thing on Bucky's head--must've been a different material altogether--and Bucky grinned back,--fucking dope-- and she dabbed the blood away from his hairline.

\---

The morning Sarah died, Steve Rogers needed to be half carried out of the hospital. 

He didn't speak, didn't look up. His face took on a hardened gaze like he had just resigned himself to mortality. And for the first time Bucky could remember, Steve didn't fight a damn thing. Not a single word from a doctor, or nudge from Bucky, or question from the funeral home, or push from the priest at St. Mary's who wanted to know specifics. Steve answered everything in a half whisper, but he answered it all, and without a single utterance of protest.

He was still sore, still had a hard time looking Bucky in the eye. Their friendship had taken on so many permutations through the years, so many different versions, that Bucky wondered if they were still friends at all. 

Bucky ached to put a hand on his shoulder, to pull him into a hug, to make him feel safe or normal or, at the very goddamn least, _warm_. Everything about the past forty eight hours had been cold and miserable. Sarah had been cold, even before she was gone, and her boys had talked to her separate and Steve had sat with her for hours while Bucky waited in the hall and fretted. When Steve had walked out he'd barely said a word, and Bucky was on his heels. He wanted to throw his arms around him and make promises and tell secrets and work his way back into some older version of their friendship that he'd locked away. 

He stood dutifully by as Steve ran the show, spoke to all the faceless lines of men who came up to him in the hospital and asked questions. Clipboards and pencils scratching away and Bucky's mouth felt dry and Steve looked so damn tired and pale--and Bucky wanted them to admit him. Wanted to foot the money for a bed for Steve to get checked out, because with their luck Steve had picked up tuberculosis in the weeks before Sarah had been too weak to live with them. 

Bucky walked quietly four paces back and let Steve stomp forward, his head down and his skin seeming too damn pale, and Bucky sighed and put his head down and followed after him. Nevermind that he was _aching_ and that the mother he remembered best in his life was dead, and his head started to throb and make demands of what would happen _now_ with Sarah gone and Steve still fuming in his blood. Steve had been mad at him for _years_ and things had never settled right and Bucky was terrified.

Walking up the stairs of the building, Bucky ghosted behind him. He wondered for a moment if he had died, if he was invisible, if the world crashing around him was the oxygen leaving and his blood slowing and the lights behind his eyes switching off... Steve opened the door, gratefully left it open, but never turned to acknowledge.

Steve collapsed immediately onto the couch Sarah slept on, pulled his knees up, and sighed. Didn't make another sound, didn't cry. Bucky hesitated, closed the door, and walked into the kitchen, rummaging for cigarettes. He knew Sarah had taken a pack from him after his last concussion, and he never bothered looking to see where she stashed it, but he wanted them now. Heights be damned. He might pitch himself off of the building for real this time.

Drawing fire into his lungs before he'd even made it out of the kitchen, he ducked his head out of the window and plopped himself onto the fire escape. Rain had washed away whatever blood there was, but he still always looked for it. He leant his back into the brick, hugging himself confidently to it, and watched traffic. _Dragon_ he told himself, smoke billowing out of him.

"I want one."

Bucky lurched and looked above his head. And there above Bucky Barnes was an angel. The blonde was looking cross, determined, his eyebrows pulled down. Bucky exhaled a cough, feeling his chest rattle and worrying--worrying that this was the feeling Steve always had at his heart. He pulled the cigarette away, biting down on his lip, "Steve,"

"I said I want one, Barnes." Steve snapped.

But Bucky ignored him, immediately flicked the cigarette over the side of the building. He looked defiantly back as Steve's face twisted and he slammed the window shut, stomping away.

Bucky raised his eyebrows, "Steve?"

He got up onto his knees, hugging the side of the building. He pulled at the window but couldn't open it from the outside. He banged on the glass, "Steve! This isn't funny!"

But his heart was already aching and his head began to lose focus and Bucky hugged onto the window pane and pressed his face into and exhaled hard. His head began to throb and he thought he was spinning and he began beating onto the glass rhythmically with a fist. Each shudder from the window pane shaking him and making him rattle into his bones. He didn't want to yell again, knew people downstairs would be able to hear. People would come out of the grocery and look up and see Bucky Barnes--mid panic attack. And honestly he didn't think he could yell if he tried because now he was breathing hard and he was going to die, oh definitely, that was a given. He was definitely going to fucking die.

Steve opened the window, "Don't be so dramatic--" He began, but Bucky threw himself onto the floor gasping. He huddled into a ball, hugging his knees and pushing out angry breaths that made his head scream. And Steve lowered his shoulders and muttered, "Buck?"

But Bucky's eyes were squeezed shut and his head had shut off and all he could hear was George yelling over the sound of the engine and telling him how this was the life, and this was a good way to live, and die. That high up was the only way to be, that rush of wind and roar of engines as the plane kicked to life. Everyone below you turned to ants and all the problems a fall away from being fixed. And Bucky hugged his head and tried to rip his father out of it, because it quickly turned to--

"Buck," Steve was shaking him. "Bucky, Jesus, stop that."

Bucky swallowed and gasped, his eyes feeling wet and red. "I don't like heights."

"Then don't go out on the goddamn fire escape." Steve grunted. Bucky sniffled and swallowed back a mouthful of snot and tears and righted himself. He rubbed his face and looked up at Steve, still hardened and so goddamn mean since Sarah went in the hospital. 

Bucky exhaled, "Interesting point."

Steve sighed and shifted his shoulders as he slumped onto the ground beside him.

"You really want a cigarette?"

"No," Steve grumbled and took a lazy wipe at his face, looking like a little kid with no finesse of motor skills. Bucky smiled and swallowed again, feeling something familiar rattle in his chest. He ignored better judgment and pulled Steve into a hug, wanting him to be warm and safe and normal and wanting him to feel how rattled and scared Bucky was and how human they were and how...Bucky started crying. Didn't happen often, he might have said, but that seemed relative. He would cry when he got frustrated, when he got so angry the world seemed impossible and he couldn't move a single thing to fix it. That seemed more common than this, which was just pure hurt radiating through his skin. And Steve clapped him on the back and sighed again, "It's okay, Buck."

Bucky laughed and pulled away, rubbing his face, "You're not suppose' to be the one comforting _me_ "

Steve shrugged and looked at the floorboards. Bucky swallowed it all down for pride's sake and was smiling at the same space on the floor, feeling it radiate out, and he nearly laughed. "Let's--,"

"If you say let's go out somewhere, I will slaughter you."

Bucky cracked a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!!! :)
> 
> Part 1:[Muscle Memory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3549494)  
> Part 2: [Apple Pie and Dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3593934/chapters/7926957)  
> For updates and fun:[tumblr](http://asolitarygrape.tumblr.com/)


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